AMERICA. 


A    COLLECTION    OF 


ELOQUENT  AND  INTERESTING  EXTRACTS 


FROM    THE    WRITINGS    OF 


BY  QFO.  B.  CHEEVER,  D.  D. 


A.vT  Mil  It  PHY- 

NEW  YORK: 
LEAVITT  &  ALJ.EN,  379  BROADWAY. 

1858. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1851, 

By   LEAVITT  &   COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  Statei 
for  the  Southern  Dis  rict  of  New  York. 


r  3.2 


PREFACE. 


BOOKS  of  common-place  are  the  amusements  of 
literature.  It  is  pleasant  to  have  at  one's  side  a  well- 
selected  volume,  to  which  he  may  turn  for  mentai 
recreation,  when  the  fatigue  of  preceding  exertion 
has  rendered  him  unequal  to  intellectual  effort.  It  is 
pleasant,  also,  to  have  before  us  the  eloquent  passages 
of  our  favourite  authors,  so  that  we  may  occasionally 
awakei.  and  prolong  the  delightful  sensations  with 
which  we  at  first  perused  them.  But  the  mere  power 
of  conferring  amusement  is  not  that,  which  gives  to 
publications  of  this  sort  then-  highest  value.  To  all 
those,  whose  constant  occupation  precludes  the  possi 
bility  of  spending  many  leisure  hours  in  the  acquisi 
tion  of 'literary  taste  and  knowledge,  they  maybe  ren 
dered  eminently  useful. 

The  present  volume  is  selected  entirely  from  Ameri 
can  authors,  and  contains  specimens  of  American  lit 
erature  from  its  earliest  period  to  the  present  day.  It 
is  hoped  that  it  may  not  be  found  inferior  in  excellence 
or  interest  to  any  of  those  compilations  which  have 
hitherto  embraced  only  the  morceaux  delideuse  of  Eng 
lish  genius. 

When  we  say  this,  it  is  without  any  feeling  of  na 
tional  vanity  or  rivalry.  Our  wish  is  merely  to  furnish 
a  volume  which  shall  correspond  in  design  and  execu 
don  to  those  which  are  now  so  popular  abroad,  and 


4  PREFACE. 

which  contribute  so  extensively  to  the  improvement  of 
general  and  literary  taste,  by  bringing  the  happier  ef 
forts  of  higher  minds  within  the  reach  of  all  classes 
of  society. 

The  volume  now  offered  to  the  public  may  also,  we 
frust,  prove  serviceable  to  the  interests  of  education. 
The  selection  contained  in  the  following  pages  is  such, 
it  is  hoped,  as  will  ex^rt  a  favourable  influence  on  the 
minds  of  youth,  by  tbe  predominating  intellectual  and 
literary  character  of  the  pieces.  The  sentiments  im 
bibed  from  the  peruspl  of  this  compilation  will  be  such 
as  our  most  eminent  writers  have  inculcated ;  and  the 
spirit  infused  by  it  will  be  that  vivid  admiration  of 
nature  ar>d  of  human  excellence,  which  forms  a  char 
acterirtio  trait  in  American  writings.  EDITOR 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Gocdnesg  of  the  Deity  displayed  in  the  Beauty  of  Creation.   Dwight.  9 

Night  Season  favourable  to  Contemplation  and  Study.  .     .      Ucnnie.  10 

CoHoquial  Powers  of  Dr.  Franklin Wirt.  12 

An  Apparition Clulj-Ruom.  14 

Rural  Occupations  favourable  to  the  Sentiments  of  Devotion. 

Buckminster.  19 

Reciprocal  Influence  of  Morals  and  Literature Frisbie.  21 

Evening  Scenes  on  the  St.  Lawrence Silliman.  23 

Franklin's  first  Entrance  into  Philadelphia Franklin.  23 

Passage  of  the  Potomac  through  the  Blue  Ridge Jefferson.  25 

Moral  and  intellectual  Efficacy  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures.     Wayland.  26 

Character  of  Washington Ames.  29 

Labours  of  periodical  Composition •.     .       Idle  Man.  33 

Industry  necessary  to  the  Attainment  of  Eloquence.     .     .     .    Ware.  34 

Ingratitude  towards  the  Deity ....  Jlppleton.  36 

Resistance  to  Oppression J.  Quinr.y,  Jan.  37 

Lafayette  in  the  French  Revolution Tieknor.  33 

Poeta  nascitur,  Orator  fit Monthly  Anthology.  42 

Intellectual  Qualities  of  Milton .     .      Chanaing.  43 

National  Recollections  the  Foundation  of  national  Character. 

E.  Everett.  44 

Extract  from  the  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow Irving.  46 

Reflections  on  the  Settlement  of  New  England.    .         .     .     Webster  51 

Forest  Scenery Paulding  53 

Influence  of  Christianity  in  elevating  the  female  Character. 

J.  O.  Carter  55 

Necessity  of  a  pure  national  Morality.    .                              .    Beecher  57 

Value  of  religious  Faith Buckminster  59 

Death  of  General  Washington .            Marshall  64 

The  Lessons  of  Death Norton  66 

Character  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall Wirt  68 

Moral  Sublimity  illustrated.       . Wayland  71 

Eloquent  Speech  of  Logan,  Chief  of  the  Mingoes.    .     .     .  Jefferson  74 

Fox,  Burke,  and  Pitt A.  H.  Everett  75 

Surprise  and  Destruction  of  the  Pequod  Indians.  .     .  Miss  Sedgwick.  81 

Character  of  Fisher  Ames .       Kirkland.  83 

Reflections  on  the  Death  of  Adams  and  Jefferson.      .     .     .  Sergeant,  94 

Indolence Dennie.  97 

Escape  of  Harvey  Birch  and  Captain.  Wharton Cooper.  99 

Scenery  in  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains Dwight.  107 

Exalted  Character  of  Poetry Chanmng.  Ill 

Eloquent  Appeal  in  Favour  of  the  Greeks.     North  American  Review.  115 

Death  of  J.  duincy,  Jun.                  .     .               ....     .7.  Quincy  123 

Danger  of  Delay  in  Religion .     Buckminster.  124 

Scenes  in  Philadelphia  during  the  Prevalence  of  the  Yellow  Fe 
ver,  in  17U3 C.  B.  Brown.  12S 


6  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

ftg* 

Important  of  Knowledge  to  the  Mechanic.    .    .       O.  B.  Emerion.  133 
Humorous  Description  of  the  Custom  of  Whitewashing. 

Francis  Hopkinson.  135 

May  you  die  among  your  Kindred Greenwood.  141 

'Description  of  a  Death  Scene Miss  Frcmcis.  141 

The  Rose.  Mrs.  Stgourney.  145 

Influence  of  Female  Character Timelier.  14t: 

Character  of  James  Monroe.  .      Wart.  150 

The  Stout  Gentleman.    A  Stago-coach  Romance  Irving.  153 

Patriotism  and  Eloquence  of  John  Adams.      .  .     .     Webster.  161 

Description  of  the  Speedwell  Mine  in  England Silhman.  166 

Effects  of  the  modern  Diffusion  of  Knowledge.    .     .    .        Wayland.  169 

The  Love  of  human  Estimation Buckminster.  172 

Extract  from  an  Address  on  retiring  from  the  public  Service  of  ilie 

United  States  of  America Washington.  176 

Sj>eecli  over  the  Grave  of  Black  Buffalo,  Chief  of  the  Teton  Tribe 

of  Indians Big  Elk  JUaha  Chief.  179 

Speech  of  Ho-na-yu-wus,  or  Farmer's  Brother .      180 

Abdication  of  Napoleon,  and  Retirement  of  Lafayette.     .     Ttc.kn.or.  181 

Extract  from  "  Hyperion."        J.  Quinty-  Jun.  185 

The  Sabbath  in  ]\ew  England Miss  Sedgwick.  190 

Description  of  the  Capture  of  a  Whale Cooper.  199 

LakeGeorge Club-Room.  197 

Hypochondriasia  and  its  Remedies Rush.  205 

Climate  and  Scenery  of  New  England Tudor.  209 

First  and  second  Death Greenwood.  215 

Posthumous  Influence  of  the  Wise  and  Good J\lurton.  217 

Difficulties  encountered  by  the  Federal  Convention.       .     .    Madison.  218 

Reflections  on  the  Battle  of  Lexington E.  Everett.  221 

Purpose  of  the  Monument  on  Bunker  Hill /(..We/-.  223 

Albums  and  the  Alps BuckminKlrr.  224 

Interview  with  Robert  Southey Griscom.  226 

Christmas Irving.  228 

Declaration  of  American  Independence Jefferson.  230 

Mementos  of  the  Instability  of  human  Existence.    .     .     .  •  .    Fitch.  234 
Description  of  the  Preaching  of  Whitfield.      .     .     .      .Mis*  Francis.  238 

Anecdote  of  Dr.  Chuuncy Tudor.  240 

Effects  of  a  Dissolution  of  the  Federal  Union.      .     .  Hamilton.  242 

Sports  on  New  Year's  Day ....       PaiUding.  245 

Conclusion  of  "  Observations  on  the  Boston  Port  Bill." 

J.  Quincy,  Jun.  249 
Necessity  of  Union  Ixjtwecn  the  States.       ...          ...       Jay.  253 

Character  of  Hamilton ...    jJmes.  256 

Morality  of  Poetry. G.  Bancroft    259 

The  Consequences  of  Atheism.      ...  ...       Cliannin<r<  2(i2 

The  blind  Preacher ....     Wirt    263 

The  humble  Man  and  the  proud.    .     .  ...    Thachtr    2o6 

The  Son.— From"  The  Idle  Man."    .     .  .     .       R.  Dana.  268 

Neglect  of  foreign  Literature  in  America. 

American  Quarterly  Review.  277 
Death  a  sublime  and  universal  Moralist.      .     .     .  Sparks.  279 

Rattle  of  Bunker  Hill.      .    • Cooper.  283 

Autumn  and  Spring Paulainir.  296 

The  Storm  Ship Irewg.  218 

Anecdote  of  James  Otis J.jJdiima.  3:14 

Interesting  Passage  in  the  Life  of  James  Otis Tudor.  306 

Plose  of  the  Lives  of  Adams  and  Jefferson      ...         .    Webster    310 
Morals  of  Chess  Franklin.  313 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  7 

The  Hospital  in  Philadelphia  during  the  Pestilence.        C.  B.  Brown.  ''"> 

Shipwreck  of  the  Ariel Cooper.  3i9 

Destruction  of  a  Family  of  the  Pilgrims  by  the  Savages. 

•  Miss  Scdgirick.    '.'9 

The  Emigrant's  Abode  in  Ohio Flint.  ^3(5 

Melancholy  Decay  of  the  Indians ....     Cass.  337 

Object  and  Success  of  the  Missionary  Enterprise.     .     .        Wayland.  339 

Mont  Blanc  in  the  Gleam  of  Sunset Griscom.'  343 

Contrast  in  the  Characters  of  Cicero  and  Atticus.     .      Buckminster.  345 

Scenery  in  the  Highlands  on  the  River  Hudson Irving.  346 

.   Eternity  of  God Greenwood.  350 

Philosophy  and  Morality  of  Tacitus. Frisbie.  355 

The  Village  Grave- ^ard Greenwood.  359 

Influence  of  the  Habit  of  Gaming  on  the  Mind  and  Heart.      .     Nott.  363 

The  Preservation  of  the  Church Mason.  367 

Modern  Facilities  for  evangelizing  the  World Beecher.  368 

Speech  of  the  Chief  Sa-gu-yu-what-hah.  called  by  the  white  People 

Red  Jacket 370 

Extract  from  a  Speech  on  the  British  Treaty Ames.  373 

Appeal  in  Favour  of  the  Union Madison.  378 

Grand  electrical  Experiment  of  Dr.  Franklin Stuber.  380 

Extrication  of  a  Frigate  from  the  Shoals Cooper.  383 

Lafayette's  first  Visit  to  America.          Ticknor.  393 

Goffe  the  Regicide Dwight.  396 

General  Washington  resigning  the  Command  of  the  Army. 

Ramsay.  397 

Alexander  Wilson.       .          North  American  Review.  403 

Female  Education  and  Learning ,     .    .    Story.  407 

Poetical  Character  of  Gray Buckminster.  409 

Republics  of  Greece  and  Italy Hamilton.  414 

Professional  Character  of  William  Pinkney.    ...       H.  Wheaton.  415 

External  Appearance  of  England A.H.Everett.  417 

Features  of  American  Scenery Tudor.  42] 

Literary  Character  of  Jefferson  and  Adams Webster.  422 

Eloquence  and  Humour  of  Patrick  Henry Wirt.  424 

Valley  of  the  Commanches Francis  Berrian    425 

Pleasures  of  the  Man  of  a  refined  Imagination.    .     .     .       Idle  Man.  427 

Scene  at  Niagara .    Miss  Sedgwick.  429 

Procession  of  Tsuns  in  a  Catholic  Hospital.       .          .     Miss  Francis.  ,430 

Grandeur  cf  astronomical  Discoveries Wirt.  434 

Scenes  on  the  Prairies Anonymous.  436 

Eulogy  on  William  Penn .     .       Du  Ponceau.  439 

Morbid  Effects  of  Envy,  Malice,  and  Hatred Rush.  440 

Appearance  of  the  first  Settlements  of  the  Pilgrims.      Miss  Sedgwick.  442 

Description  of  a  Herd  of  Bisons Cooper.  444 

The  Character  of  Jesus Thacher.  448 

Recollections  of  J.  Quincy,  Jun J.  Quincy.  450 

The  true  Pride  of  Ancestry Webster.  451 

A  Slide  in  the  White  Mountains.  Mrs.  Hale.  453 

The  Twins ....        Token.  454 

The  lone  Indian. Miss  Francis.  457 

A  Scene  in  the  Catskill  Mountains.    .          G.  Mellen.  459 

Tho  St.  Lr  .vrence.      . .      JV.  P.  Willis.  460 

I  have  seen  an  End  of  all  Perfection.      .     .          .       Mrs.  Sigoumey.  461 

Neatness        .     .  ...  .  Dennie.  464 

Description  of  King's  College  Chapel  .         .    SUliman.  467 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS. 


F»«e. 

Tig* 
jay                  253 

Ames  29,  256,  375 

Jefferson.        .     .    .       25,74,230 

Kirkland  88 

ApplPton  36 

Bancroft,  G  259 

Madison  218,378 
Marshall  64 

Beecher                                   57  368 

Mason        367 

Big  Elk  Maha  Chief.     ...     179 

Mellen,  G  459 

Brown,  C.  B.       ...      128,  316 

Norton  66,  217 

19  59  124  172  224   345  409 

Nott          363 

Paula!  ng  53,245,296 

Pass  337 

(banning.       .     .     .     43,111,262 
Club-Room  14,  197 

Quincy,  J.,  Jun.      .      37,  185,  249 
Quincy,  J  123,  450 

Cooper.    99,  192,  283,  319,  383,  444 

Dana,  R  268 

Red  Jacket,  (an  Indian  Chief.)  370 

Dcnnie  10,97,464 

North  American    115  403 

Uwi»ht.               .             9  107  396 

Rush     205  440 

Emerson,  G.  B  133 

Everett,  A.  H  75,  417 
E.                              41  ""1 

Sedgwick,  Miss. 
81,  190,  329,  429,  442 
Sergeant         ...          .     .      94 

Sigourney   Mrs.       .            145,  461 
Silliman  23,  166,  467 

Chief.)    .         .'....     180 

Sparks  271 

Fitch.    .                    ....    234 

Story  407 

Flint.     .         .          ....     336 

Stuber             380 

Francis  Bernan  425 
Francis,  Miss.      141,  238,  430,  457 
Franklin  23  312 

Thacher  146,266,448 
Ticknor.          ...      38,  181,  393 

Frisbie.           .          ...   21,  355 

Token  454 

Greenwood.     .      141,  215,  350,  359 
Griscom.     ...         .      226  343 

Tudor.            .     209,  240,  306,  421 
Ware  34 

Hale,  Mrs  453 

Washington.       .                    .     176 
Wayland.            .     26,  71,  169,  339 

Hamilton  242,  414 
Hopkinson  F  135 

Idle  Man  33,  427 

Webster.  51.  161,  223,  310,  422,  451 
Wheaton,  H  415 
Willis,  N   P  460 
Wirt.        12.68   150,263  424,434 

Irring.        .    46,  153.  228,  298,  34J 

PROSE    WRITERS 


AMERICA. 


Goodness  of  the  Deity  displayed  in  the  Beauty  of 
Creation. — DWIGHT 

WERE  all  the  interesting  diversities  of  colour  and  form 
to  disappear,  how  unsightly,  dull,  and  wearisome,  would 
be  the  aspect  of  the  world !  The  pleasures,  conveyed  to 
us  by  the  endless  varieties,  with  which  these  sources  of 
beauty  are  presented  to  the  eye,  are  so  much  things  of 
course,  and  exist  so  much  without  intermission,  that  we 
scarcely  think  either  of  their  nature,  their  number,  or  the 
great  proportion  which  they  constitute  in  the  whole  mass  of 
our  enjoyment.  But,  were  an  inhabitant  of  this  country 
to  be  removed  from  its  delightful  scenery  to  the  midst  of 
an  Arabian  desert,  a  boundless  expanse  of  sand,  a  waste, 
spread  with  uniform  desolation,  enlivened  by  the  murmur 
of  no  stream,  and  cheered  by  the  beauty  of  no  verdure  ; 
although  he  might  live  in  a  palace,  and  riot  in  splendour 
and  luxury,  he  would,  I  think,  find  life  a  dull,  wearisome, 
melancholy  round  of  existence ;  and,  amid  all  his  gratifi 
cations,  would  sigh  for  the  hills  and  valleys  of  his  native 
land,  the  brooks,  and  rivers,  the  living  lustre  of  the  Spring, 
and  the  rich  glories  of  the  Autumn.  The  ever-varying 
brilliancy  and  grandeur  of  the  landscape,  and  the  magnifi 
cence  of  the  sky,  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  enter  more  exten 
sively  into  the  enjoyment  of  mankind,  than  we,  perhaps, 
ever  think,  or  can  possibly  apprehend,  without  frequent 
and  extensive  investigation.  This  beauty  and  splendour  of 
the  objects  around  us,  it  is  ever  to  be  remembered,  is  not 
necessary  to  their  existence,  nor  to  what  we  commonly  in 
tend  by  their  usefulness.  It  is,  therefore,  to  be  regarded 


10  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

as  a  source  of  pleasure  gratuitously  superinduced  upon  the 
general  nature  of  the  objects  themselves,  and,  in  tins  light, 
as  a  testimony  of  the  divine  goodness  peculiarly  affecting. 


JVight  Season  favourable  to  Contemplation  and 
Study. — DKXXIE. 

•'  Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ?" — ISAIAH  xxi.  11. 

To  this  query  of  Isaiah,  the  watchman  replies,  that 
"  The  morning  cometh,  and  also  the  night."  The  brevity 
of  this  answer  has  left  it  involved  in  something  cf  the  ob 
scurity  of  the  season  in  which  it  was  given.  I  think  that 
night,  however  sooty  and  ill-favoured  it  may  be  pronounced, 
by  those  who  were  born  under  a  daystar,  merits  a  more 
particular  description.  I  feel  peculiarly  disposed  to  ar 
range  some  ideas  in  favour  of  this  season.  I  know  that 
the  majority  are  literally  blind  to  its  merits ;  they  must 
be  prominent,  indeed,  to  be  discerned  by  the  closed  eyes 
of  the  snorer,  who  thinks  that  nig~ht  was  made  for  nothing 
but  sleep.  But  the  student  and  the  sage  are  willing  to 
believe  that  it  was  formed  for  higher  purposes  ;  and  that 
it  not  only  recruits  exhausted  spirits,  but  sometimes  in 
forms  inquisitive  and  mends  wicked  ones. 

Duty,  as  well  as  inclination,  urges  the  Lay  Preacher  to 
sermonize  while  others  slumber.  To  read  numerous  vol 
umes  in  the  morning,  and  to  observe  various  characters  at 
noon,  will  leave  but  little  time,  except  the  night,  to  digest 
the  one  or  speculate  upon  the  other.  The  night,  there 
fore,  is  often  dedicated  to  composition,  and,  while  the  light 
of  the  paly  planets  discovers  at  his  desk  the  Preacher,  more 
w».n  than  they,  he  may  be  heard  repeating  emphatically 
with  Dr.  Young, 

"Darkness  has  much  Divinity  for  me.' 


He  is  then  alone ;  he  is  then  at  peace.  No  companions 
near,  but  the  silent  volumes  on  his  shelf;  no  noise  abroad 
but  the  click  of  the  village  clock  or  the  bark  of  the  vil 
lage  dog.  The  deacon  has  then  smoked  his  sixth,  and  last 
pipe,  and  asks  not  a  question  more  concerning  Josephus 


COMMON- PLACE  BOOK  OP  /ROSE.        11 

or  the  church.  Stillness  aids  study,  and  the  sermon  pro 
ceeds.  Such  being  the  obligations  to  night,  it  would  be 
ungrateful  not  to  acknowledge  them.  As  my  watchful 
eyes  can  discern  its  dim  beauties,  my  warm  heart  shall 
feel,  and  my  prompt  pen  shall  describe,  the  uses  and  pleas 
ures  of  the  nocturnal  hour. 

"  Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ?"  I  can  with  propriety 
imagine  this  question  addressed  to  myself;  I  am  a  professed 
lucubrator ;  and  who  so  well  qualified  to  delineate  the  sa 
ble  hours  as 

"  A  meager,  muse-rid  mope,  adust  and  thin  ?" 

However  injuriously  night  is  treated  by  the  sleepy  mod 
erns,  the  vigilance  of  the  ancients  could  not  overlook  its 
benefits  and  joys.  In  as  early  a  record  as  the  book  of 
Genesis,  I  find  that  Isaac,  though  he  devoted  his  assiduous 
days  to  action,  reserved  speculation  till  night.  "  He  went 
out  to  meditate  in  the  field  at  eventide."  He  chose  that 
sad,  that  solemn  hour,  to  reflect  upon  the  virtues  of  a  be 
loved  and  departed  mother.  The  tumult  and  glare  of  the 
day  suited  not  with  the  sorrow  of  his  soul.  He  had  lost 
his  most  amiable,  most  genuine  friend,  and  his  unostenta 
tious  grief  was  eager  for  privacy  and  shade.  Sincere  sor 
row  rarely  suffers  its  tears  to  be  seen.  It  was  natural  for 
Isaac  to  select  a  season  to  weep  in,  that  should  resemble 
"  the  colour  of  his  fate."  The  darkness,  the  solemnity, 
the  stillness  of  the  eve,  were  favourable  to  his  melancholy 
purpose.  He  forsook,  therefore,  the  bustling  tents  of  hia 
father,  the  pleasant  "  south  country,"  and  "  well  of  La- 
hairoi ;"  he  went  out  and  pensively  meditated  at  even 
tide. 

The  Grecian  and  Roman  philosophers  firmly  believed 
that  the  "  dead  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought."  One 
of  them  is  beautifully  described  by  the  poet  as  soliciting 
knowledge  from  the  skies  in  private  and  nightly  audience, 
end  that  neither  his  theme,  nor  his  nightly  walks,  were 
forsaken  till  the  sun  appeared,  and  dimmed  his  "  nobler  in 
tellectual  beam."  We  undoubtedly  owe  to  the  studious 
nights  of  the  ancients  most  of  their  elaborate  and  immortal 
production-!.  Among  them  it  wa°  necessary  that  every 
man  of  letters  should  trim  tho  mi  'night  lamp.  The  day 


12  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

might  be  given  to  the  forum  or  the  circus,  but  the  night 
was  the  season  for  tne  statesman  to  project  his  schemes, 
and  for  the  poet  to  pour  his  verse. 

Night  has,  likewise,  with  great  reason,  been  considered, 
in  every  age,  as  the  astronomer's  day.  Young  observes, 
with  energy,  that 

"  An  undevout  astronomer  is  mad." 

The  privilege  of  contemplating  those  brilliant  and  nu 
merous  myriads  of  planets  which  bedeck  our  skies  is  pe 
culiar  to  night,  and  it  is  our  duty,  both  as  lovers  of  moral 
and  natural  beauty,  to  bless  that  season,  when  we  are  in 
dulged  with  such  a  gorgeous  display  of  glittering  and  use 
ful  light.  It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  seclusion,  calm 
ness,  and  tranquillity  of  midnight,  are  most  friendly  to  seri 
ous,  and  even  airy  contemplations. 

I  think  it  treason  to  this  sable  Power,  who  holds  divided 
empire  with  Day,  constantly  to  shut  our  eyes  at  her  ap 
proach.  To  long  sleep  I  am  decidedly  a  foe.  As  it  is 
expressed  by  a  quaint  writer,  we  shall  all  have  enough  of 
it  in  the  grave.  Those,  who  cannot  break  the  silence  of 
the  night  by  vocal  throat,  or  eloquent  tongue,  may  be  per 
mitted  to  disturb  it  by  a  snore.  But  he,  among  my  readers, 
who  possesses  the  power  of  fancy  and  strong  thought, 
should  be  vigilant  as  a  watchman.  Let  him  sleep  abun 
dantly  for  health,  but  sparingly  for  sloth.  It  is  better, 
sometimes,  to  consult  a  page  of  philosophy  than  the  pillow. 


Colloquial  Powers  of  Dr.  Franklin. — WIRT. 

NEVER  have  I  known  such  a  fireside  companion  as  he 
was ! — Great  as  he  was,  both  as  a  statesman  and  a  philoso 
pher,  he  never  shone  in  a  light  more  winning  than  when 
he  was  seen  in  a  domestic  circle.  It  was  once  my  good 
fortune  to  pass  two  or  three  weeks  with  him, -at  the  bouse 
of  a  private  gentleman,  in  the  back  part  of  Pennsylvania ; 
and  we  were  confined  to  the  house  during  the  whole  of 
that  time,  by  the  unintermitting  constancy  and  deptb  of  the 
spows.  But  confinement  could  never  be  felt  where  Frank- 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  13 

.in  was  an  inmate. — His  cheerfulness  and  bis  colloquial 
oowers  spread  around  him  a  perpetual  spring. — When  I 
speak,  however,  of  his  colloquial  powers,  J  do  not  mean  to 
awaken  any  notion  analogous  to  that  which  Boswell  ha? 
given  us,  when  he  so  frequently  mentions  the  colloquial 
powers  of  Dr.  Johnson.  The  conversation  of  the  latter 
continually  reminds  one  of  "  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  glorious  war."  It  was,  indeed,  a  perpetual  contest  for 
victory,  or  an  arbitrary  and  despotic  exaction  of  homage 
to  his  superior  talents.  It  was  strong,  acute,  prompt, 
splendid  and  vociferous ;  as  loud,  stormy,  and  sublime,  as 
those  winds  which  he  represents  as  shaking  the  Hebrides, 
and  rocking  the  old  castles  that  frowned  upon  the  dark 
rolling  sea  beneath.  But  one  gets  tired  of  storms,  however 
sublime  they  may  be,  and  longs  for  the  more  orderly  cur 
rent  of  nature. — Of  Franklin  no  one  ever  became  tired. 
There  was  no  ambition  of  eloquence,  no  effort  to  shine,  in 
any  thing  which  came  from  him.  There  was  nothing 
which  made  any  demand  either  upon  your  allegiance  or 
your  admiration. 

His  manner  was  as  unaffected  as  infancy.  It  was  na 
ture's  self.  He  talked  like  an  old  patriarch  ;  and  his  plain 
ness  and  simplicity  put  you,  at  once,  at  your  ease,  and  gave 
you  the  full  and  free  possession  and  use  of  all  your  fac 
ulties. 

His  thoughts  were  of  a  character  to  shine  by  their  own 
light,  without  any  adventitious  aid.  They  required  only  a 
medium  of  vision  like  his  pure  and  simple  style,  to  exhibit, 
lo  Ihe  highest  advantage,  their  native  radiance  and  beauty. 
His  cheerfulness  was  unremitting.  It  seemed  to  be  as 
much  the  effect  of  the  systematic  and  salutary  exercise 
of  the  mind  as  of  its  superior  organization.  His  wit  was 
of  the  first  order.  It  did  not  show  itself  merely  in  occa 
sional  coruscations  ;  but,  without  any  effort  or  force  on  his 
part,  it  shed  a  constant  stream  of  the  purest  light  over 
the  whole  of  his  discourse.  Whether  in  the  company  of 
commons  or  nobles,  he  was  always  the  same  plain  man  ; 
always  most  perfectly  at  his  ease,  his  faculties  in  full  play, 
and  the  full  orbit  of  his  genius  forever  clear  and  uncloud 
ed.  And  then  the  stores  of  his  mind  were  inexhaustible. 
He  had  commence'!  life  with  an  attention  so  vigilant,  thai 
2 


14  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

nothing  had  escaped  his  observation,  and  a  judgment  so 
solid,  that  every  incident  was  turned  to  advantage.  His 
youth  had  not  been  wasted  in  idleness,  nor  overcast  by  in- 
tempe"rance.  He  had  been  all  his  life  a  close  and  deep 
reader,  as  well  as  thinker ;  and,  by  the  force  of  his  own 
powers,  had  wrought  up  the  raw  materials,  which  he  had 
gathered  from  books,  with  such  exquisite  skill  and  felicity, 
that  he  had  added  a  hundred  fold  to  their  original  value, 
and  justly  made  them  his  own. 


Jin  Apparition. — CLUB-ROOM. 

THE  sun  was  hastening  to  a  glorious  setting  as  I  gained 
the  last  hill  that  overlooks  the  forest;  and,  late  as  it  was,  I 
paused  to  gaze  once  more  on  this  most  brilliant  and  touch 
ing  of  the  wonders  of  nature.  The  glories  of  the  western 
sky  lasted  long  after  the  moon  was  in  full  splendour  in  the 
east ;  on  one  side  all  was  rich  and  warm  with  departing 
day — on  the  other  how  pure  and  calm  was  the  approach 
of  night !  If  1  had  been  born  a  heathen,  I  think  I  could 
not  have  seen  the  setting  sun,  without  believing  myself 
immortal  :  who,  that  had  never  seen  the  morning  dawn, 
could  believe  that  wonderful  orb,  which  sinks  so  slowly 
and  majestically  through  a  sea  of  light,  throwing  up  beams 
of  a  thousand  hues,  melting  and  mingling  together,  touch 
ing  the  crest  of  the  clouds  with  fire,  and  streaming  over 
the  heavens  with  broad  brilliancy,  up  to  the  zenith — then 
retiring  from  sight,  and  gradually  drawing  his  beams  after 
him,  till  their  last  faint  blush  is  extinguished  in  the  cold, 
uniform  tints  of  moonlight — who  could  believe  that  source 
of  light  had  perished  ?  Who  then  could  believe  that  (lie 
being,  who  gazes  on  that  magnificent  spectacle  with  such 
emotion,  and  draws  from  it  such  high  conclusions  of  his 
own  nature  and  destiny,  is  even  more  perishable  ? 

I  remained  absorbed  in  such  reflections  till  the  twilight 
was  almost  gone.  I  then  began  rapidly  to  descend,  and, 
leaving  the  moon  behind  the  hill,  entered  the  long  dark 
shadow  it  threw  over  the  wood  at  its  foot.  It  was  gloomy 
»nd  chill — the 'faint  lingering  of  day  was  hidden  by  the 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  15 

trees,  and  the  moon  seemed  to  have  set  again,  throwing 
only  a  distant  light  on  the  rich  volumes  of  clouds  that  hung 
over  her.  As  I  descended  farther,  the  air  became  colder, 
the  sky  took  a  deeper  blue,  and  the  stars  shone  with  a 
wintry  brightness.  The  thoughts  which  came  tenderly 
over  me,  by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  now  grew  dark 
and  solemn ;  and  I  felt  how  fleeting  and  unsatisfactory  are 
the  hopes  built  on  the  analogies  of  nature.  The  sun  seta 
so  beautifully  it  seems  impossible  it  should  not  rise  again  ; 
but  in  the  gloom  of  midnight,  where  is  the  promise  of  the 
morrow  ?  In  the  cold,  but  still  beautiful,  features  of  the 
dead,  we  think  we  see  the  pledge  of  a  resurrection;  but 
what  hope  of  life  is  there  in  the  dust  to  which  they  crum 
ble  ? 

I  arrived  late  at  the  inn.  It  was  a  large  and  ruinous 
structure,  which  had  once  been  a  castle,  but  the  family  of 
its  owner  had  perished  in  disgrace  :  their  title  was  extin 
guished,  their  lands  confiscated  and  sold,  and  their  name 
now  almost  forgotten.  It  stood  on  a  small  bare  hill  in  the 
midst  of  the  forest,  which  it  overtopped,  only  to  lose  its 
shelter  and  shade,  for  from  it  the  eye  could  not  reach 
the  extremity  of  the  wood.  I  knocked  long  before  I  was 
admitted ;  at  last  an  old  man  came  to  the  door  with  a  lan 
tern,  and,  without  a  word  of  welcome,  led  my  horse  to  the 
stable,  leaving  me  to  find  my  way  into  the  house.  The 
spirit  of  the  place  seemed  to  have  infected  its  inhabitants. 
I  entered  a  kitchen,  whose  ejctent  I  could  not  see  by  the 
dim  fire-light,  and,  having  stirred  the  embers,  sat  down  to 
warm  me.  The  old  man  soon  returned,  and  showed  me 
up  the  remains  of  a  spacious  staircase,  to  a  long  hall,  in  a 
corner  of  which  was  my  bed.  I  extinguished  the  light,  and 
.ay  down  without  undressing  ;  but  the  thoughts  and  scenes 
of  the  evening  had  taken  strong  hold  of  my  mind,  and  I 
could  hot  sleep.  I  did  not  feel  troubled,  but  there  was  an 
intensity  of  thought  and  feeling  within  me,  that  seemed 
waiting  for  some  great  object  on  which  to  expend  itself. 
I  rose,  and  walked  to  the  window  :  the  moon  was  shining 
beautifully  bright,  but  the  forest  was  so  thick  that  her  light 
only  glanced  on  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  showed  nothing 
distinctly — -all  was  silent  and  motionless — not  a  breeze,  not 
a  sound,  not  a  cloud — the  earth  was  dim  and  undistinguisb- 


16  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

able,  the  heavens  were  filled  with  a  calm  light,  and  the 
moon  seemed  to  stand  still  in  the  midst.  1  know  not  how 
long  I  remained  leaning  against  the  window  and  gazing 
upward,  for  I  was  dreaming  of  things  long  past,  of  which 
I  was  then,  though  I  knew  it  not,  the  only  living  witness ; 
when  my  attention  was  suddenly  recalled  by  the  low  but 
distinct  sound  of  some  one  breathing  near  me — I  turned 
with  a  sudden  thrill  of  fear,  but  saw  nothing ;  and,  as  the 
sound  had  ceased,  I  readily  believed  it  was  fancy.  I  soon 
relapsed  into  my  former  train  of  thought,  and  had  forgot 
ten  the  circumstance,  when  I  was  again  startled  by  a 
sound  I  could  not  mistake — there  was  some  one  breathing 
at  my  very  ear — so  terribly  certain  was  the  fact  that  I  did 
not  move  even  my  eyes;  it  was  not  the  deep,  regular  breath 
of  one  asleep,  nor  the  quick  panting  of  guilt,  but  a  quiet, 
gentle  respiration ;  I  remained  listening  till  I  could  doubt 
no  longer,  and  then  turned  slowly  round,  that  I  might  not 
be  overpowered  by  the  suddenness  of  the  sight,  which  I 
knew  I  must  meet — again  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen — 
the  moon  shone  broad  into  the  long  desolate  chamber,  and, 
though  there  was  a  little  gathering  of  shadow  in  the  cor 
ners,  I  am  sure  nothing  visible  could  have  escapgd  the 
keenness  of  my  gaze,  as  I  looked  again  and  again  along 
the  dark  wainscot.  My  calmness  now  forsook  me,  and,  a_- 
I  turned  fearfully  back  to  the  window,  my  hand  brushed 
against  the  curtain,  whose  deep  folds  hid  the  corner  near 
which  I  was  standing — the  blood  gushed  to  my  heart  with 
a  sharp  pang,  and  I  involuntarily  dashed  my  hands  forward 
— they  passed  through  against  the  damp  wall,  and  the  tide 
of  life  rolled  back,  leaving  me  hardly  able  to  support  my 
self.  I  stood  a  few  moments  lost  in  fear  and  wonder — 
when  the  breathing  began  again,  and  there— ^in  the  bright 
moonlight — I  felt  the  air  driven  against  my  face  by  a  being 
I  could  not  see.  I  sat  down  on  the  bed  in  great  agitation, 
and  it  was  a  considerable  time  before  I  could  at  all  com 
pose  my  mind — the  fact  was  certain,  but  the  cause  inscru 
table.  I  rose,  and  walked  across  the  chamber. 

I  made  three  or  four  turns,  and  gradually  recovered  my 
tranquillity,  though  still  impressed  with  the  belief  that  what 
I  had  heard  was  no  natural  sound.  I  was  not  now  in  a 
Itate  to  be  easily  deluded,  for  my  senses  were  on  the  alert, 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  17 

but  my  mind  perfectly  calm.  The  old  floor  groaned  under 
every  tread,  but  the  noise  excited  in  me  no  alarm ;  I  did 
not  even  turn  when  the  planks  sprung  and  cracked  behind 
me  long  after  my  foot  had  left  them.  But,  good  God ! 
what  were  my  feelings  when  I  heard  distinct  footsteps  fol 
lowing  my  own !  the  light  tread  of  naked  feet — I  stopped 
instantly,  just  as  I  had  made  a  step — the  tread  ceased,  and 
a  moment  after  I  heard  a  foot  brought  up  as  if  to  support 
the  walker  in  this  unexpected  pause — Could  it  be  echo  ? — 
I  struck  my  foot  upon  the  floor — the  sound  was  short  and 
sullen,  and  was  not  repeated — I  walked  on,  but  the  steps 
did  not  follow — I  turned,  and  paused  again — all  was  still. 
I  walked  back,  and  as  I  reached  the  spot  where  the  sounds 
had  ceased — whether  I  heard  or  saw  it  I  cannot  tell — but 
something  passed  me,  and  a  soft  sigh  floated  along  with  it, 
dying  away  in  distance  like  the  moaning  of  a  gentle  wind. 
It  was  indistinct  as  it  passed,  but  as  I  listened  to  catch  its 
last  lingering,  I  knew  the  voice  of  Gertrude ! — "  Her 
mann  !"  it  said,  in  a  tone  so  tender  and  mournful,  that  my 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  I  seemed  to  hear  it  long  after  it 
had  ceased.  "  Gertrude  !"  I  cried  aloud — the  same  sweet 
sigh  answered  me,  and  for  an  instant  I  caught  the  dark 
beam  of  her  eye — there  was  no  form,  but  I  saw  her  own 
look — that  deep  melancholy  gaze — it  was  but  a  moment, 
and  it  was  gone.  "  Gertrude  !"  I  cried  again,  "  if  it  be 
thou,  do  not  fly  me — come  to  me,  beloved !"  A  pause  of 
deeper  silence  followed  ;  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  air 
where  I  had  lost  her,  when  the  shadows  at  the  extremity 
of  the  chamber  began  to  move  like  the  waving  of  a  gar 
ment  ;  their  motion  at  first  was  indefinite  and  hardly  per 
ceptible,  but  gradually  increased  till  they  parted  and  rolled 
away,  leaving  a  brighter  space  in  the  middle.  This  had  at 
first  no  determinate  form,  but  soon  began  to  assume  the 
outline  of  a  human  figure.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sensa 
tion  af  that  -foment — my  hair  rose,  my  flesh  crept,  and 
drops  of  sweat  rolled  fast  down  my  cheeks ;  yet  it  was  not 
fear — I  cannot  describe  the  emotion  with  which  I  watched 
the  figure  growing  more  and  more  distinct ;  and  even  when 
I  saw  the  face  of  my  own  Gertrude,  all  thoughts  of  earth 
were  swallowed  up  in  those  of  eternity — I  stood  in  the 
presence  of  a  .spirit,  and  felt  myself  immortal  i  Tha 


18  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

triumph  was  short — it  was  too  like  herself — the  eyes  were 
closed,  but  it  was  her  own  graceful  form,  though  attenu 
ated  and  almost  transparent — her  own  face — pale  and  lan 
guid,  but  oh,  how  beautiful ! — at  last  the  eyes  opened  — 
they  alone  were  unchanged,  and  they  gazed  on  me  with  a 
tenderness  I  could  not  bear — 1  sunk  on  my  knees,  and  hid 
my  face — I  felt  her  approach — I  did  not  raise  my  eyes,  but 
I  knew  she  was  near  me  by  a  glow  of  more  than  human 
happiness — a  hand  was  laid  upon  my  head — "  Hermann  !" 
said  the  same  sweet  voice,  "  dear  Hermann !  but  ona 
year  more  !" — and  the  sound  floated  away.  I  looked  up — 
she  was  already  disappearing — she  smiled  on  me,  and  the 
form  faded,  and  the  shadows  gathered  over  it. 

I  had  sunk  on  the  floor  exhausted ;  the  first  feeling  I 
remember  was  one  of  unutterable  grief  and  loneliness ; 
but  the  next  was  joy  at  the  thought  thi,t  I  was  not  to  en 
dure  it  long — "  but  one  year  more,  at <J  I  shall  be  with  thee 
forever" — I  could  not  feel  more  certain  of  any  fact  of  my 
own  experience,  than  that  Gertrude  was  dead,  and  I  should 
soon  follow. 

I  paced  the  chamber  till  day-break,  and  then  watched 
the  sky  till  the  sun  rose.  I  was  in  no  haste  to  be  gone, 
for  I  had  but  a  short  day's  journey  before  me,  and  did  not 
wish  to  arrive  before  night.  I  remained  in  my  chamber 
till  the  morning  mists  were  dispersed,  and  then  began  my 
journey.  I  rode  slowly  all  day,  musing  and  abstracted,  and 
hardly  noticing  the  objects  around  me,  till  I  reached  the 
brow  of  a  hill  beneath  which  lay  the  village  of  Underwal- 
den — a  few  simple  buildings  gathered  close  round  the 
church  whose  spire  just  rose  above  the  trees  ;  beyond  was 
the  gentle  slope  of  green  hills  parted  only  by  hawthorn 
hedges  ;  and  still  further  on,  the  home  of  my  Gertrude,  can 
opied  by  tall  ancient  elms,  and  gleaming  in  the  yellow  light 
»f  the  setting  sun. 

If  I  had  had  no  other  reason,  I  should  have  foreboded 
evil  from  the  silence  of  the  hour — it  is  always  a  quiet  time, 
but  it  has  a  few  sounds  that  harmonize  with  its  solemnity — 
the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  the  whistle  of  the  returning  la 
bourer,  or  the  distant  merriment  of  the  children  released 
from  school,  come  naturally  with  the  close  of  day — but 
now  the  cattle  were  gathered  home,  and  the  labourer  had 


_____ J 


COMMON  PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.       19 

eft  the  field  before  the  usual  hour,  the  school  was  shut, 
and  the  village  green  silent  and  solitary.  A  few  of  the 
better  class  of  villagers,  in  their  decent  sabbath  dress,  were 
walking  over  the  hill  toward  the  mansion ;  others,  with 
their  wives  and  children,  were  standing  round  the  gate  of 
the  church-yard,  and  there  was  something  mournful  in  the 
motions  and  attitudes  of  all.  I  knew  well  what  all  this 
meant,  but  I  gazed  on  it  with  a  vacant  mind,  and  without 
any  new  conviction  of  my  desolate  lot.  I  even  saw  with 
a  sad  pleasure  the  beauty  of  a  landscape,  which,  like  all  the 
world,  was  nothing  now  to  me.  But  this  did  not  last  long 
1 — suddenly  there  was  a  hum  of  voices,  and  a  stir  among 
those  who  had  been  waiting  at  the  church — the  bell  tolled, 
a  faint  chant  swelled  from  behind  the  hill,  and  the  proces 
sion  came  slowly  in  sight.  Then  the  truth  fell  on  me  with 
an  overpowering  weight ;  I  threw  myself  on  the  ground, 
and  looked  on  with  a  bursting  heart,  till  all  I  had  loved 
was  forever  hidden  from  sight. — Farewell,  my  friend !  I 
am  going  to  Rome  for  a  few  months,  for  it  is  the  seat  of 
my  religion,  and  I  would  look  once  more  before  I  die 
on  the  mightiest  remains  of  earth.  I  have  watched  the 
fall  of  the  last  leaves  in  Underwalden ;  I  shall  return  to 
see  them  put  forth  once  more,  but  when  they  fall  again, 
they  will  cover  the  grave  of  HERMANN 


Rural  Occupations  favourable  to  the  Sentiments  of 
Devotion. — BITCKMINSTER. 

No  situation  in  life  is  so  favourable  to  established  habits 
of  virtue,  and  to  powerful  sentiments  of  devotion,  as  a  resi 
dence  in  the  country,  and  rural  occupations.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  a  condition  of  peasantry,  (of  which,  in  this 
country,  we  know  little,)  who  are  mere  vassals  of  an  ab- 
ecrxt  lord,  or  the  hired  labourers  of  an  intendant,  and  who 
are  therefore  interested  in  nothing  but  the  regular  receipt 
of  their  daily  wages  ;  but  I  refer  to  the  honourable  charac 
ter  of  an  owner  of  the  soil,  whose  comforts,  whose  weight 
in  the  community,  and  whose  very  existence,  depend  upon 
li'.s  personal  labours,  and  the  regular  returns  of  the  abun- 


20  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

dance  from  the  soil  which  he  cultivates.  No  man,  one 
would  think,  would  feel  so  sensibly  his  immediate  depend 
ence  upon  God,  as  the  husbandman.  For  all  his  peculiar 
blessings  he  is  invited  to  look  immediately  to  the  bounty 
of  Heaven.  No  secondary  cause  stands  between  him  ana 
his  Maker.  To  him  are  essential  the  regular  succession 
jf  the  seasons,  and  the  timely  fall  of  the  rain,  the  genial 
warmth  of  the  sun,  the  sure  productiveness  of  the  soil, 
and  the  certain  operations  of  those  laws  of  nature,  which 
must  appear  to  him  nothing  less  than  the  varied  exertions 
of  omnipresent  energy.  In  the  country  we  seem  to  stand 
in  the  midst  of  the  great  theatre  of  God's  power,  and  we 
feel  an  unusual  proximity  to  our  Creator.  His  blue  and 
tranquil  sky  spreads  itself  over  our  heads,  and  we  acknowl 
edge  the  intrusion  of  no  secondary  agent  in  unfolding  this 
vast  expanse.  Nothing  but  Omnipotence  can  work  up  the 
dark  horrors  of  the  tempest,  dart  the  flashes  of  the  light 
ning,  and  roll  the  long-resounding  rumour  of  the  thunder. 
The  breeze  wafts  to  his  senses  the  odours  of  God's  benefi 
cence  ;  the  voice  of  God's  power  is  heard  in  the  rustling 
of  the  forest ;  and  the  varied  forms  of  life,  activity,  and 
pleasure,  which  he  observes  at  every  step  in  the  fields, 
lead  him  irresistibly,  one  would  think,  to  the  Source  of 
be  ng,  and  beauty,  and  joy.  How  auspicious  such  a  life 
to  the  noble  sentiments  of  devotion !  Besides,  the  situation 
of  the  husbandman  is  peculiarly  favourable,  it  should  seem, 
to  purity  and  simplicity  of  moral  sentimect.  He  is  brought 
acquainted  chiefly  with  the  real  and  native  wants  of  mankind. 
Employed  solely  in  bringing  food  out  of  the  earth,  he  is 
not  liable  to  be  fascinated  with  the  fictitious  pleasures,  the 
unnatural  wants,  the  fashionable  follies,  and  tyrannical  vices 
of  more  busy  and  splendid  life. 

Still  more  favourable  to  the  religious  character  of  the 
husbandman  is  the  circumstance,  that,  from  the  nature  of 
agricultural  pursuits,  they  do  not  so  completely  engross 
the  attention  as  other  occupations.  They  leave  much 
time  for  contemplation,  for  reading,  and  intellectual  pleas 
ures  ;  and  these  are  peculiarly  grateful  to  the  pesident  in 
the  country.  Especially  does  the  institution  of  t?  e  Sabbath 
discover  all  its  value  to  the  tiller  of  the  earth,  whose  fa 
tigue  it  solaces,  whose  hard  labours  it  interrupts,  and  who 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  21 

feels,  on  that  day,  the  worth  of  his  moral  nature,  which 
cannot  be  understood  by  the  busy  man,  who  considers  the 
repose  of  this  day  as  interfering  with  his  hopes  of  gain,  or 
professional  employments.  If,  then,  this  institution  is  of 
any  moral  and  religious  value,  it  is  to  the  country  we  must 
look  for  the  continuance  of  that  respect  and  observance, 
which  it  merits.  My  friends,  those  of  you,  especially, 
who  retire  annually  into  the  country,  let  these  periodical 
retreats  from  business  or  dissipation  bring  you  nearer  to 
your  God ;  let  them  restore  the  clearness  of  your  judg 
ment  on  the  objects  of  human  pursuit,  invigorate  your 
moral  perceptions,  exalt  your  sentiments,  and  regulate  your 
habits  of  devotion  ;  and,  if  there  be  any  virtue  or  simplici 
ty  remaining  in  rural  life,  let  them  never  be  impaired 
by  the  influence  of  your  presence  and  example. 


Reciprocal  Influence  of  Morals  and  Literature. — 
FRISBIE. 

Ix  no  productions  of  modern  genius  is  the  reciprocal  in 
fluence  of  morals  and  literature  more  distinctly  seen,  than 
in  those  of  the  author  of  Childe  Harold.  His  character 
produced  the  poems,  and  it  cannot  be  doubted,  that  his  po 
ems  are  adapted  to  produce  such  a  character.  His  heroes 
speak  a  language  supplied  not  more  by  imagination  than 
consciousness.  They  are  not  those  machines,  that,  by  a 
contrivance  of  the  artist,  send  forth  a  music  of  their  own  ; 
but  instruments,  through  which  he  breathes  his  very  soul, 
in  tones  of  agonized  sensibility,  that  cannot  but  give  a  sym 
pathetic  impulse  to  those  who  hear.  The  desolate  misan 
thropy  of  his  mind  rises,  and  throws  its  dark  shade  over  his 
poetry,  like  one  of  his  own  ruined  castles ;  we  feel  it  to 
be  sublime,  but  we  forget  that  it  is  a  sublimity  it  cannot 
have  til.  it  is  abandoned  by  every  thing  that  is  kind,  and 
peaceful,  and  happy,  and  its  halls  are  ready  to  become 
the  haunts  of  outlaws  and  assassins.  Nor  are  his  more 
tender  and  affectionate  passages  those  to  which  we  can 
yield  ourselves  without  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  It  ia 
not  that  we  can  here  and  there  select  a  proposition  formally 


22  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PKOSE. 

false  and  pernicious;  but  he  leaves  an  impression  unfa 
vourable  to  a  healthful  state  of  thought  and  feeling,  pecu 
liarly  dangerous  to  the  finest  minds  and  most  susceptible 
hearts.  They  are  the  scene  of  a  summer  evening,  where 
all  is  tender,  and  beautiful,  and  grand ;  but  the  damps  of 
disease  descend  with  the  dews  of  heaven,  and  the  pestilent 
vapours  of  night  are  breathed  in  with  the  fragrance  and 
balm,  and  the  delicate  and  fair  are  the  surest  victims  of  the 
exposure. 

Although  I  have  illustrated  the  moral  influence  of  liter 
ature  principally  from  its  mischiefs,  yet  it  is  obvious,  if 
what  I  have  said  be  just,  it  may  be  rendered  no  less  pow 
erful  as  a  means  of  good.  Is  it  not  true  that  within  the 
last  century  a  decided  and  important  improvement  in  the 
moral  character  of  our  literature  has  taken  place  ?  and,  had 
Pope  and  Smollett  written  at  the  present  day,  would  the 
former  have  published  the  imitations  of  Chaucer,  or  the 
latter  the  adventures  of  Pickle  and  Random  ?  Genius 
cannot  now  sanctify  impurity  or  want  of  principle ;  and 
our  critics  and  reviewers  are  exercising  jurisdiction  not 
only  upon  the  literary,  but  moral  blemishes  of  the  authors 
who  come  before  them.  We  notice  with  peculiar  pleasure 
the  sentence  of  just  indignation  which  the  Edinburgh  tri 
bunal  has  pronounced  upon  Moore,  Swift,  Goethe,  and,  in 
general,  the  German  sentimentalists.  Indeed,  the  foun 
tains  of  literature,  into  which  an  enemy  has  sometimes  in 
fused  poison,  naturally  flow  with  refreshment  and  health. 
Cowper  and  Campbell  have  led  the  muses  to  repose  in  the 
bowers  of  religion  and  virtue  ;  and  Miss  Edgeworth  has  so 
cautiously  combined  the  features  of  her  characters,  that 
the  predominant  expression  is  ever  what  it  should  be.  She 
has  shown  us  not  vices  ennobled  by  virtues,  but  virtues  de 
graded  and  perverted  by  their  union  with  vices.  The  suc 
cess  of  this  lady  has  been  great ;  but,  had  she  availed  her 
self  more  of  the  motives  and  sentiments  of  religion,  we 
think  it  would  have  been  greater.  She  has  stretched 
forth  a  powerful  hand  to  the  impotent  in  virtue  ;  and  had 
she  added,  with  the  apostle,  in  the  name  of  Jesus  of  Naz 
areth,  we  should  almost  have  expected  miracles  from  itt 
touch. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  23 


JSvening  Scenes  on  the  St.  Lawrence. — SILLIMAJV. 

FROM  the  moment  the  sun  is  down,  every  thing  becomes 
eilent  on  the  shore,  which  our  windows  overlook,  and  the 
murmurs  of  the  broad  St.  Lawrence,  more  than  two  miles 
wide  immediately  before  us,  and,  a  little  way  to  the 
right,  spreading  to  five  or  six  miles  in  breadth,  are  some 
times  for  an  hour  the  only  sounds  that  arrest  our  attention. 
Every  evening  since  we  have  been  here,  black  clouds  and 
eplendid  moonlight  have  hung  over,  and  embellished  this 
tranquil  scene  ;  and  on  two  of  these  evenings  we  have 
been  attracted  to  the  window,  by  the  plaintive  Canadian 
boat-song.  In  one  instance,  it  arose  from  a  solitary  voya 
ger,  floating  in  his  light  canoe,  which  occasionally  appear 
ed  and  disappeared  on  the  sparkling  river,  and  in  its  distant 
course  seemed  no  larger  than  some  sportive  insect.  In 
another  instance,  a  larger  boat,  with  more  numerous  and 
less  melodious  voices,  not  indeed  in  perfect  harmony,  pass 
ed  nearer  to  the  shore,  and  gave  additional  life  to  the  scene- 
A  few  moments  after,  the  moon  broke  out  from  a  throne 
of  dark  clouds,  and  seemed  to  convert  the  whole  expanse 
of  water  into  one  vast  sheet  of  glittering  silver ;  and,  in 
the  very  brightest  spot,  at  the  distance  of  more  than  a  mile, 
again  appeared  a  solitary  boat,  but  too  distant  to  admit  of 
our  hearing  the  song,  with  which  the  boatman  was  proba 
bly  solacing  his  lonely  course. 


Franklin's  first  Entrance  into  Philadelphia. — 
FRANKLIN. 

I  HAVE  entered  into  the  particulars  of  my  voyage,  and 
•hall,  in  like  manner,  describe  my  first  entrance  into  this 
city,  that  you  may  be  able  to  compare  beginnings  so  little 
auspicious  with  the  figure  I  have  since  made. 

On  my  arrival  at  Philadelphia,  I  was  in  my  working 
dress,  my  best  clothes  being  to  come  by  sea.  I  was  cover 
ed  with  dirt ;  my  pockets  were  filled  with  shirts  and  stock 
ings  ;  I  was  unacquainted  with  a  single  soul  in  the  place, 


24  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ind  knew  not  where  to  seek  a  lodging.  Fatigued  with 
walking,  rowing,  and  having  passed  the  night  without 
sleep,  I  was  extremely  hungry,  and  all  my  money  consist 
ed  of  a  Dutch  dollar,  and  about  a  shilling's  worth  of  cop 
pers,  which  I  gave  to  the  boatmen  for  my  passage.  As  I 
had  assisted  them  in  rowing,  they  refused  it  at  first ;  but  I 
insisted  on  their  taking  it?  A  man  is  sometimes  more  gen 
erous  when  he  has  little  than  when  he  has  much  money  ; 
probably  because,  in  the  first  case,  he  is  desirous  of  con 
cealing  his  poverty. 

I  walked  towards  the  top  of  the  street,  looking  eagerly 
on  both  sides,  till  I  came  to  Market  Street,  where  I  met 
with  a  child  with  a  loaf  of  bread.  Often  had  I  made  my 
dinner  on  dry  bread.  I  inquired  where  he  had  bought  it, 
and  went  straight  to  the  baker's  shop,  which  he  pointed  out 
to  me.  I  asked  for  some  biscuits,  expecting  to  find  such 
as  we  had  at  Boston ;  but  they  made,  it  seems,  none  of  that 
sort  at  Philadelphia.  I  then  asked  for  a  threepenny  loaf. 
They  made  no  loaves  of  that  price.  Finding  myself  igno 
rant  of  the  prices,  as  well  as  of  the  different  kinds  of  bread,  1 
desired  him  to  let  me  have  threepenny-worth  of  bread  of 
some  kind  or  other.  He  gave  me  three  large  rolls.  I  was 
surprised  at  receiving  so  much  :  I  took  them,  however,  and, 
having  no  room  in  my  pockets,  I  walked  on  with  a  roll  under 
each  arm,  eating  a  third.  In  this  manner  I  went  through 
Market  Street  to  Fourth  Street,  and  passed  the  house  of  Mr. 
Read,  the  father  of  my  future  wife.  She  was  standing  at 
the  door,  observed  me,  and  thought,  with  reason,  that  1 
made  a  very  singular  and  grotesque  appearance. 

I  then  turned  the  corner,  and  went  through  Chestnut 
Street,  eating  my  roll  all  the  way;  and,  having  made  this 
round,  I  found  myself  again  on  Market  Street  wharf,  near 
the  boat  in  which  I  arrived.  1  stepped  into  it  to  take  a 
draught  of  the  river  water  ;  and,  finding  myself  satisfied 
with  my  first  roll,  I  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and 
her  child,  who  had  come  down  with  us  in  the  boat,  and 
was  waiting  to  continue  her  journey.  Thus  refreshed,  1 
regained  the  street,  which  was  now  full  of  well-dressed 
people,  all  going  the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  was 
thus  led  to  a  large  Quakers'  meeting-housa  near  the  mar 
ket  place  I  sat  down  with  the  rest,  and,  after  looking 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  25 

round  jne  for  some  time,  hearing  nothing  said,  and  being 
drowsy  from  my  last  night's  labour  and  want  of  rest,  I  fell 
into  a  sound  sleep.  In  this  state  I  continued  till  the  as 
sembly  dispersed,  when  one  of  the  congregatipn  had  the 
goodness  to  wake  me.  This  was  consequently  the  first 
house  I  entered,  or  in  which  I  slept,  at  Philadelphia. 


Passage  of  the  Potomac  through  t\e  Blue  Ridge. — 
JEFFERSON. 

THE  passage  of  the  Potomac,  through  the  Blue  Ridge, 
is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  stupendous  scenes  in  nature. 
You  stand  on  a  very  high  point  of  land.  On  your  right 
comes  up  the  Shenandoah,  having  ranged  along  the  foot 
of  the  mountain  a  hundred  miles  to  seek  a  vent.  On  your 
left  approaches  the  Potomac,  seeking  a  passage  also.  In 
the  moment  of  their -junction,  they  rush  together  against 
the  mountain,  rend  it  asunder,  and  pass  off  to  the  sea. 
The  first  glance  at  this  scene  hurries  our  senses  into  the 
opinion,  that  this  earth  has  been  created  in  time  ;  that  the 
mountains  were  formed  first ;  that  the  rivers  began  to  flow 
afterwards ;  that,  in  this  place  particularly,  they  have  been 
dammed  up  by  the  Blue  Ridge  of  mountains,  and  have 
formed  an  ocean  which  filled  the  whole  valley ;  that,  con 
tinuing  to  rise,  they  have  at  length  broken  over  at  this  spot, 
and  have  torn  the  mountain  down  from  its  summit  to  its 
base.  The  piles  of  rock  on  each  hand,  but  particularly  on 
the  Shenandoah,  the  evident  marks  of  their  disrupture  and 
avulsion  from  their  beds  by  the  most  powerful  agents  of 
nature,  corroborate  the  impression.  But  the  distant  finish 
ing,  which  Nature  has  given  to  the  picture,  is  of  a  very  dif 
ferent  character.  It  is  a  true  contrast  to  the  foreground. 
It  is  as  placid  and  delightful  as  that  is  wild  and  tremendous. 
For,  the  mountain  being  cloven  asunder,  she  presents  to 
your  eye,  through  the  cleft,  a  small  catch  of  smooth  blue 
horizon,  at  an  infinite  distance  in  the  plain  country,  invit 
ing  you,  as  it  were,  from  the  riot  and  tumult  roaring  around, 
to  pass  through  the  breach,  and  participate  of  the  calm  be 
low.  Here  the  eye  ultimately  composes  itself;  and  that 
3 


26  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Way,  too,  the  road  happens  actually  to  lead.  You  cioss  Jie 
Potomac  above  its  junction,  pass  along  its  side  through 
the  base  of  the  mountain  for  three  miles,  its  terrible  preci 
pices  hanging  in  fragments  over  you,  and  within  abiat 
twenty  miles  reach  Fredericktown,  and  the  fine  country 
round  that.  This  scene  is  worth  a  voyage  across  the  At 
lantic.  Yet  here,  as  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Natu 
ral  Bridge,  are  people  who  have  passed  their  lives  within 
half  a  dozen  miles,  and  have  never  been  to  survey  these 
monuments  of  a  war  between  rivers  and  mountains,  which 
must  have  shaken  the  earth  itself  to  its  centre. 


Moral  and  intellectual  Efficacy  of  the  Sacred 
Scriptures. — WAYLAND. 

As  to  the  powerful,  I  had  almost  said  miraculous,  effect  of 
the  Sacred  Scriptures,  there  can  no  longer  be  a  doubt  in 
the  mind  of  any  one  on  whom  fact  can  make  an  impression. 
That  the  truths  of  the  Bible  have  the  power  of  awakening 
an  intense  moral  feeling  in  man  under  every  variety  of 
character,  learned  or  ignorant,  civilized  or  savage ;  that  they 
make  bad  men  good,  and  send  a  pulse  of  healthful  feeling 
through  all  the  domestic,  civil,  and  social  relations;  that  they 
teach  men  to  love  right,  to  hate  wrong,  and  to  seek  each 
other's  welfare,  as  the  children  of  one  common  parent ; 
that  they  control  the  baleful  passions  of  the  human  heart, 
and  thus  make  men  proficients  in  the  science  of  self-gov 
ernment  ;  and,  finally,  that  they  teach  him  to  aspire  after  a 
conformity  to  a  Being  of  infinite  holiness,  and  fill  hii-a  with 
hopes  infinitely  more  purifying,  more  exalting,  more  suited 
to  his  nature,  than  any  other,  which  this  world  has  ever 
known, — are  facts  incontrovertible  as  the  laws  of  philoso 
phy,  or  the  demonstrations  of  mathematics.  Evidence  in 
support  of  all  this  can  be  brought  from  every  age,  in  the 
history  of  man,  since  there  has  been  a  revelation  from  God 
on  earth.  We  see  the  proof  of  it  every  where  around  us. 
There  is  scarcely  a  neighbourhood  in  our  country,  where 
the  Bible  is  circulated,  in  which  we  cannot  point  you  to  a 
very  considerable  portion  of  its  population,  whom  its  truths 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  27 

have  reclaimed  from  the  practice  of  vice,  and  taught  the 
practice  of  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  and  honest,  and 
just,  and  of  good  report. 

That  this  distinctive  and  peculiar  effect  is  produced  upon 
every  man  to  whom  the  Gospel  is  announced,  we  pretend 
not  to  affirm.  But  we  do  affirm,  that,  besides  producing 
this  special  renovation,  to  which  we  have  alluded,  upon  a 
part,  it,  in  a  most  remarkable  degree,  elevates  the  tone 
of  moral  feeling  throughout  the  whole  community, 
Wherever  the  Bible  is  freely  circulated,  and  its  doctrines 
carried  home  to  the  understandings  of  men,  the  aspect  of 
society  is  altered ;  the  frequency  of  crime  is  diminished ; 
men  begin  to  love  justice,  and  to  administer  it  by  law  ;  and 
a  virtuous  public  opinion,  that  strongest  safeguard  of  right, 
spreads  over  a  nation  the  shield  of  its  invisible  protection. 
Wherever  it  has  faithfully  been  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
human  heart,  even  under  most  unpromising  circumstances, 
it  has,  within  a  single  generation,  revolutionized  the  whole 
structure  of  society ;  and  thus,  within  a  few  years,  done 
more  for  man  than  all  other  means  have  for  ages  accom 
plished  without  it.  For  proof  of  all  this,  I  need  only  refer 
you  to  the  effects  of  the  Gospel  in  Greenland,  or  in  South 
Africa,  in  the  Society  Islands,  or  even  among  the  aborigi 
nes  of  our  own  country. 

But,  before  we  leave  this  part  of  the  subject,  it  may  be 
well  to  pause  for  a  moment,  and  inquire  whether,  in  addi 
tion  to  its  moral  efficacy,  the  Bible  may  not  exert  a  pow 
erful  influence  upon  the  intellectual  character  of  man. 

And  here  it  is  scarcely  necessary  that  I  should  remark, 
that,  of  all  the  books  with  which,  since  the  invention  of 
writing,  this  world  has  been  deluged,  the  number  of  those 
Is  very  small  which  have  produced  any  perceptible  effect  on 
the  mass  of  human  character.  By  far  the  greater  part  have 
been,  even  by  their  cotemporaries,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 
Not  many  a  one  has  made  its  little  mark  upon  the  genera 
tion  that  produced  it,  though  it  sunk  with  that  generation 
to  utter  forgetfulness.  But,  after  the  ceaseless  toil  of  six 
thousand  years,  how  few  have  been  the  works,  the  adaman 
tine  basis  of  whose  reputation  has  stood  unhurt  amid  the 
fluctuations  of  time,  and  whose  impression  can  be  traced 
through  successive  centuries,  on  the  history  of  our  species 


28  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

When,  however,  such  a  work  appears,  its  effects  are  ab 
solutely  incalculable  ;  and  such  a  work,  you  are  aware,  is 
the  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.  Who  can  estimate  the  results 
produced  by  the  incomparable  efforts  of  a  single  mind  ; 
Who  can  tell  what  Greece  owes  to  this  first-born  of  song  ? 
Her  breathing  marbles,  her  solemn  temples,  her  unrivalled 
eloquence,  and  her  matchless  verse,  all  point  us  to  that 
transcendent  genius,  who,  by  the  very  splendour  of  hi? 
own  effulgence,  woke  the  human  intellect  from  the  slum 
ber  of  ages.  It  was  Homer  who  gave  laws  to  the  artist ; 
it  was  Homer  who  inspired  the  poet ;  it  was  Homer  who 
thundered  in  the  senate  ;  and,  more  than  all,  it  was  Ho 
mer  who  was  sung  by  the  people ;  and  hence  a  nation 
was  cast  into  the  mould  of  one  mighty  mind,  and  the  land 
of  the  Iliad  became  the  region  of  taste,  the  birth-place  of 
the  arts. 

Nor  was  this  influence  confined  within  the  limits  of 
Greece.  Long  after  the  sceptre  of  empire  had  passed 
westward,  Genius  still  held  her  court  on  the  banks  of  the 
Ilyssus,  and  from  the  country  of  Homer  gave  laws  to  the 
world.  The  light,  which  the  blind  old  man  of  Scio  had 
kindled  in  Greece,  shed  its  radiance  over  Italy  ;  and  thus 
did  he  awaken  a  second  nation  into  intellectual  existence. 
And  we  may  form  some  idea  of  the  power  which  this  one 
work  has  to  the  present  day  exerted  over  the  mind  of  man, 
by  remarking,  that  "  nation  after  nation,  and  century  after 
century,  has  been  able  to  do  little  more  than  transpose 
his  incidents,  new-name  his  characters,  and  paraphrase  his 
sentiments." 

But,  considered  simply  as  an  intellectual  production, 
who  will  compare  the  poems  of  Homer  with  the  Holy 
Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament  ?  Where  in 
the  Iliad  shall  we  find  simplicity  and  pathos  which  shall 
vie  with  the  narrative  of  Moses,  or  maxims  of  conduct  to 
equal  in  wisdom  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  or  sublimity 
which  does  not  fade  away  before  the  conceptions  of  Job  or 
David,  of  Isaiah  or  St.  John  ?  But  I  cannot  pursue  this 
comparison.  I  feel  that  it  is  doing  wrong  to  the  mind 
which  dictated  the  Iliad,  and  to  those  other  mighty  intel 
lects  on  whom  the  li<rht  of  the  holy  oracles  never  shined. 
Who  tbat  has  read  his  poem  has  notobserved  how  he  strove 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  29 

In  vain  to  give  dignity  to  the  mythology  of  his  time  ?  Who 
has  not  seen  how  the  religion  of  his  country,  unahle  to 
support  the  flight  of  his  imagination,  sunk  powerless  be 
neath  him  ?  It  is  the  unseen  world,  where  the  master  spir 
its  of  our  race  breathe  freely,  and  are  at  home  ;  and  it  is 
mournful  to  behold  the  intellect  of  Homer  striving  to  free 
itself  from  the  conceptions  of  materialism,  and  then  sink 
ing  down  in  hopeless  despair,  to  weave  idle  tales  about 
Jupiter  and  Juno,  Apollo  and  Diana.  But  the  difficulties 
under  which  he  laboured  are  abundantly  illustrated  by  the 
fact,  that  the  light,  which  he  poured  upon  the  human  intel 
lect,  taught  other  ages  how  unworthy  was  the  religion  of 
his  day  of  the  man  who  was  compelled  to  use  it.  "  It 
seems  to  me,"  says  Longinus,  "  that  Homer,  when  he  de 
scribes  dissensions,  jealousies,  tears,  imprisonments,  and 
other  afflictions  to  his  deities,  hath,  as  much  as  was  in  his 
power,  made  the  men  of  the  Iliad  gods,  and  the  gods  men. 
To  man,  when  afflicted,  death  is  the  termination  of  evils  ; 
but  he  hath  made  not  only  the  nature,  but  the  miseries,  of 
the  gods  eternal." 

If,  then,  so  great  results  have  flowed  from  this  one  ef 
fort  of  a  single  mind,  what  may  we  not  expect  from  the  com 
bined  efforts  of  several,  at  least  his  equals  in  power  over 
the  human  heart?  If  that  one  genius,  though  groping  in 
the  thick  darkness  of  absurd  idolatry,  wrought  so  glorious 
a  transformation  in  the  character  of  his  countrymen,  what 
may  we  not  look  for  from  the  universal  dissemination  of 
those  writings,  on  whose  authors  was  poured  the  full  splen 
dour  of  eternal  truth  ?  If  unassisted  human  nature,  spell 
bound  by  a  childish  mythology,  have  done  so  much,  what 
may  we  not  hope  for  from  the  supernatural  efforts  of  pre 
eminent  genius,  which  spake  as  it  was  moved  by  the  Holy 
Ghost ? 


Character  of  Washington. — AMES. 

THERE  has  scarcely  appeared  a  really  great  man,  whose 
character  has  been  more  admired  in  his  life  time,  or  less 
correctly  understood  by  his  admirers.     When  it  is  compre- 
3" 


30  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

bended,  it  is  no  easy  task  to  delineate  its  excellencies  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  give  to  the  portrait  both  interest  and 
resemblance  ;  for  it  requires  thought  and  study  to  under 
stand  the  true  ground  of  the  superiority  of  his  character 
over  many  others,  whom  he  resimbled  in  the  principles  cf 
action,  and  even  in  the  manner  of  acting  But  perhaps  he 
excels  all  the  great  men  that  ever  lived  in  the  steadiness 
of  his  adherence  to  his  maxims  of  life,  and  in  the  uniformity 
of  all  his  conduct  to  the  same  maxims.  These  maxims, 
though  wise,  were  yet  not  so  remarkable  for  their  wisdom,  as 
for  their  authority  over  his  life  ;  for,  if  there  were  any  er 
rors  in  his  judgment,  (and  he  discovered  as  few  as  any 
man,)  we  know  of  no  blemishes  in  his  virtue  He  was  the 
patriot  without  reproach  ;  he  loved  his  country  well  enough 
to  hold  his  success  in  serving  it  an  ample  recompense.  Thus 
far  self-love  and  love  of  country  coincided  ;  but  when  his 
country  needed  sacrifices  that  no  other  man  could,  or  per 
haps  would,  be  willing  to  make,  he  did  not  even  hesitate. 
This  was  virtue  in  its  most  exalted  character.  More  than 
once  he  put  his  fame  at  hazard,  when  he  had  reason  to 
think  it  would  be  sacrificed,  at  least  in  this  age.  Two  in 
stances  cannot  be  denied ;  when  the  army  was  disbanded, 
and  again,  when  he  stood,  like  Leonidas  at  the  pass  of  Ther 
mopylae,  to  defend  our  independence  against  France.  ,j 

It  is,  indeed,  almost  as  difficult  to  draw  his  character,  as 
the  portrait  of  Virtue.  The  reasons  are  similar  :  our  ideas 
of  moral  excellence  are  obscure,  because  they  are  com 
plex,  and  we  are  obliged  to  resort  to  illustrations.  Wash 
ington's  example  is  the  happiest  to  show  what  virtue  is ; 
and,  to  delineate  his  character,  we  naturally  expatiate  on 
the  beauty  of  virtue  ;  much  must  be  felt,  and  much  ima 
gined.  His  pre-eminence  is  not  so  much  to  be  seen  in  the 
display  of  any  one  virtue,  as  in  the  possession  of  them  all, 
and  in  the  practice  of  the  most  difficult.  Hereafter,  there 
fore,  his  character  must  be  studied  before  it  will  be  strik 
ing  ;  and  then  it  will  be  admitted  as  a  model,  a  precious 
one  to  a  free  republic. 

It  is  no  less  difficult  to  speak  of  his  talents.  They  were 
Adapted  to  lead,  without  dazzling  mankind ;  and  to  draw 
forth  and  employ  the  talenl.-  of  others,  without  being  mis 
led  by  them.  '  In  this  he  <va.-  certainly  superior,  that  ha 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  PI 

neither  mistook  nor  misapplied  his  own.  His  great  modesty 
and  reserve  would  have  concealed  them,  if  great  occasion! 
had  not  called  them  forth ;  and  then,  as  he  never  spoke 
from  the  affectation  to  shine,  nor  acted  from  any  sinister 
motives,  it  is  from  their  effects  only  that  we  are  to  judge  of 
their  greatness  and  extent.  In  public  trusts,  where  men, 
acting  conspicuously,  are  cautious,  and  in  those  private 
concerns  where  few  conceal  or  resist  their  weaknesses, 
Washington  was  uniformly  great,  pursuing  right  conduct 
from  right  maxims.  His  talents  were  such  as  assist  a  sound 
judgment,  and  ripen  with  it.  His  prudence  was  consum 
mate,  and  seemed  to  take  the  direction  of  his  powers  and 
passions  ;  for,  as  a  soldier,  he  was  more  solicitous  to  avoid 
mistakes  that  might  he  fatal,  than  to  perform  exploits  that 
are  brilliant ;  and,  as  a  statesman,  to  adnere  to  just  princi 
ples,  however  old,  than  to  pursue  novelties  ;  and  therefore, 
in  both  characters,  his  qualities  were  singularly  adapted  to 
the  interest,  and  were  tried  in  the  greatest  perils  of  the 
country.  His  habits  of  inquiry  were  so  far  remarkable,  that 
he  was  never  satisfied  with  investigating,  nor  desisted  from 
it,  so  long  as  he  had  less  than  all  the  light  that  he  could  obtain 
upon  a  subject,  and  then  he  made  his  decision  without  bias 
This  command  over  the  partialities  that  so  generally  stop 
men  short,  or  turn  them  aside  in  their  pursuit  of  truth,  is 
one  of  the  chief  causes  of  his  unvaried  course  of  right 
conduct  in  so  many  difficult  scenes,  where  every  human 
actor  must  be  presumed  to  err.  If  he  had  strong  passions, 
he  had  learned  to  subdue  them,  and  to  be  moderate  and 
mild.  If  he  had  weaknesses,  he  concealed  them,  which 
is  rare,  and  excluded  them  from  the  government  of  his 
temper  and  conduct,  which  is  still  more  rare.  If  he  loved 
fame,  he  never  made  improper  compliances  for  what  is 
called  popularity.  The  fame  he  enjoyed  is  of  the  kind 
that  will  last  forever;  yet  it  was  rather  the  effect,  than  the 
motive  of  his  conduct.  Some  future  Plutarch  will  search 
for  a  parallel  to  his  character.  Epaminondas  is  perhaps  the 
brightest  name  of  all  antiquity  Our  Washington  resem 
bled  him  in  the  purity  and  ardour  of  his  patriotism  ;  and 
like  him  he  first  exalted  the  glory  of  his  country.  There, 
it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  parallel  ends;  for  Thebes  fell  with 
Epam' tondas. — But  such  comparisons  cannot  <)e  pursued 


32  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

far  without  departing  from  the  similitude.  For  we  shall 
find  it  as  difficult  to  compare  great  men  as  great  rivers. 
Some  we  admire  for  the  length  and  rapidity  of  their  cur 
rent,  and  the  grandeur  of  their  cataracts ;  others  for  the 
majestic  silence  and  fulness  of  their  streams  :  we  cannot 
bring  them  together  to  measure  the  difference  of  their 
waters.  The  unambitious  life ,  of  Washington,  declining 
fame,  yet  courted  by  it,  seemed,  like  the  Ohio,  to  choose 
its  long  way  through  solitudes,  diffusing  fertility  ;  or,  like 
his  own  Potomac,  widening  and  deepening  his  channel 
as  he  approaches  the  sea,  and  displaying  most  the  useful 
ness  and  serenity  of  his  greatness  towards  the  end  of  his 
course.  Such  a  citizen  would  do  honour  to  any  country. 
The  constant  affection  and  veneration  of  his  country  will 
show,  that  it  was  worthy  of  such  a  citizen. 

However  his  military  fame  may  excite  the  wonder  of 
mankind,  it  is  chiefly  by  his  civil  magistracy,  that  his  ex 
ample  will  instruct  them.  Great  generals  have  arisen  in 
all  ages  of  the  world,  and  perhaps  most  in  those  of  despot 
ism  and  darkness.  In  times  of  violence  and  convulsion, 
they  rise,  by  the  force  of  the  whirlwind,  high  enough  to 
ride  in  it,  and  direct  the  storm.  Like  meteors,  they  glare 
on  the  black  clouds  with  a  splendour,  that,  while  it  dazzles 
and  terrifies,  makes  nothing  visible  but  the  darkness.  The 
fame  of  heroes  is  indeed  growing  vulgar ;  they  multiply 
hi  every  long  war ;  they  stand  in  history,  and  thicken  in 
their  ranks,  almost  as  undistinguished  as  their  own  soldiers. 
But  such  a  chief  magistrate  as  Washington  appears,  like  the 
pole  star  in  a  clear  sky,  to  direct  the  skilful  statesman.  His 
presidency  will  form  an  epoch,  and  be  distinguished  as  the 
age  of  Washington.  Already  it  assumes  its  high  place  in 
the  political  region.  Like  the  milky  way,  it  whitens  along 
its  allotted  portion  of  the  hemisphere.  The  latest  genera 
tions  of  men  will  survey,  through  the  telescope  of  history, 
the  space  where  so  many  virtues  blend  their  rays,  and  de 
light  to  separate  them  into  groups  and  distinct  virtues.  As 
the  best  illustration  of  them,  the  living  monument  to  which 
the  first  of  patriots  would  have  chosen  to  consign  his  fame 
it  is  my  earnest  prayer  to  Heaven  that  our  country'  may 
subsist,  even  to  that  late  day,  in  the  plenitude  of  its  liberty 
and  happiness,  and  mingle  its  mild  glory  with  Washington's. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  33 


Labours  of  periodical  Composition. — IDLE  MAN. 

I  KNOW  that  it  is  an  arduous  undertaking,  for  one  whose 
mind  rarely  feels  the  spring  of  bodily  health  bear'mg  it  up, 
whose  frame  is  soon  worn  by  mental  labour,  and  who  can 
seldom  go  to  his  task  with  that  hopeful  sense  sustaining 
Ir.m,  which  a  vigorous  and  clear  spirit  gives  to  the  soul.  To 
know  that  our  hour  for  toil  is  come,  and  that  we  are  weak 
and  unprepared ;  to  feel  that  depression  or  lassitude  is 
weighing  us  down,  when  we  must  feign  lightness  and 
mirth  ;  or  to  mock  our  secret  griefs  with  show  of  others 
not  akin,  must  be  the  fate  of  him  who  labours  in  such  a 
work.  This  is  not  all.  When  our  work  is  done,  and  well 
done,  the  excitement  which  the  employment  had  given  us 
is  gone,  the  spirits  sink  down,  and  there  is  a  dreadful  void 
in  the  mind.  We  feel  as  powerless  as  infancy  till  pushed 
to  the  exertion  of  our  powers  again  ;  even  great  success  has 
iU  terrors.  We  fear  that  we  shall  never  do  so  well  again ; 
and  know  how  churlishly  the  world  receives  from  us  that 
which  will  not  bear  a  comparison  with  what  we  have  given 
them  before. 

Yet  these  sufferings  have  their  rewards.  To  bear  up 
against  ill  health  by  a  sudden  and  strong  effort,  to  shake  off 
low  spirits,  and  drive  away  the  mists  which  lie  thick  and 
heavy  upon  the  mind,  gives  a  new  state  of  being  to  the 
SPU!  cheerful  as  the  light.  To  sit  at  home  in  our  easy 
cnair,  and  send  our  gay  thoughts  abroad,  as  it  were,  on 
wings  to  thousands — to  imagine  them  laughing  over  the 
odd  fancies  and  drolleries  which  had  made  us  vain  and 
happy  in  secret,  multiplies  and  spreads  our  sympathies  qui 
etly  and  happily  through  the  world.  In  this  way,  too,  we 
can  pour  out  before  the  world  thoughts  which  had  never 
been  laid  open  even  to  a  friend ;  and  make  it  feel  our  mel 
ancholy,  and  bear  our  griefs,  while  we  still  sit  in  the  secret 
of  our  souls.  The  heart  tells  its  story  abroad,  yet  loses  nol 
its  delicacy :  it  1.  ys  itself  bare,  but  is  still  sensitive. 


84  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


Industry  necessary  to  the  Attainment  of  Eloquence  — • 
WARE. 

THE  history  of  the  world  is  full  of  testimony  to  prove 
how  much  depends  upon  industry  ;  not  an  eminent  orator 
has  lived  but  is  an  example  of  it.  Yet,  in  contradiction  to 
all  this,  the  almost  universal  feeling  appears  to  be,  that  in 
dustry  can  effect  nothing,  that  eminence  is  the  result  of 
accident,  and  that  every  one  must  be  content  to  remain  just 
what  he  may  happen  to  be.  Thus  multitudes,  who  come 
forward  as  teachers  and  guides,  suffer  themselves  to  be  sat 
isfied  with  the  most  indifferent  attainments,  and  a  miserable 
mediocrity,  without  so  much  as  inquiring  how  they  may 
rise  higher,  much  less  making  any  attempt  to  rise.  For 
any  other  art  they  would  have  served  an  apprenticeship, 
and  would  be  ashamed  to  practise  it  in  public  before  they 
had  learned  it.  If  any  one  would  sing,  he  attends  a  mas 
ter,  and  is  drilled  in  the  very  elementary  principles ;  and 
only  after  the  most  laborious  process  dares  to  exercise  hia 
voice  in  public.  This  he  does,  though  he  has  scarce  any 
thing  to  learn  but  the  mechanical  execution  of  what  lie? 
in  sensible  forms  before  the  eye.  But  the  extempore  speak 
er,  who  is  to  invent  as  well  as  to  utter,  to  carry  on  an  opera 
tion  of  the  mind  as  well  as  to  produce  sound,  enters  upon  the 
work  without  preparatory  discipline,  and  then  wonders  that 
he  fails  !  If  he  were  learning  to  play  on  the  flute  for  pub 
lic  exhibition,  what  hours  and  days  would  he  spend  in  giv 
ing  facility  to  his  fingers,  and  attaining  the  power  of  the 
sweetest  and  most  expressive  execution !  If  he  were  de 
voting  himself  to  the  organ,  what  months  and  years  would 
he  labour,  that  he  might  know  its  compass,  and  be  master 
of  its  keys,  and  be  able  to  draw  out,  at  will,  all  its  various 
combinations  of  harmonious  sound,  and  its  full  richness  and 
delicacy  of  expression  !  And  yet  he  will  fancy  that  the 
grandest,  the  most  various  and  most  expressive  of  all  instru 
ments,  which  the  infinite  Creator  has  fashioned  by  the  union 
of  an  intellectual  soul  with  the  powers  of  speech,  may  be 
played  upon  without  study  or  practice  ;  he  comes  to  it  a 
mere  uninstructed  tyro,  and  thinks  to  manage  all  its  stops, 
and  command  the  whole  compass  of  its  var*d  and  com- 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  34 

prehensive  power  !  He  finds  himself  a  bungler  in  the  at 
tempt,  is  mortified  at  his  failure,  and  settles  it  in  his  mind 
forever,  that  the  attempt  is  vain. 

Success  in  every  art,  whatever  may  be  the  natural  talent, 
is  always  the  reward  of  industry  and  pains.  But  the  in 
stances  are  many,  of  men  of  the  finest  natural  genius, 
whose  beginning  has  promised  much,  but  who  have  de 
generated  wretchedly  as  they  advanced,  because  they 
trusted  to  their  gifts,  and  made  no  efforts  to  improve.  That 
there  have  never  been  other  men  of  equal  endowments 
with  Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  none  would  venture  to  sup 
pose  ;  but  who  have  so  devoted  themselves  to  their  art,  or 
become  equal  in  excellence  ?  If  those  great  men  had  been 
content,  like  others,  to  continue  as  they  began,  and  had 
never  made  their  persevering  efforts  for  improvement,  what 
would  their  countries  have  benefited  from  their  genius,  or 
the  world  have  known  of  their  fame  ?  They  would  have 
been  lost  in  the  undistinguished  crowd  that  sunk  to  oblivion 
around  them.  Of  how  many  more  will  the  same  remark 
prove  true  !  What  encouragement  is  thus  given  to  the 
industrious !  With  such  encouragement,  how  inexcusable 
is  the  negligence,  which  suffers  the  most  interesting  and 
important  truths  to  seem  heavy  and  dull,  and  fall  ineffec 
tual  to  the  ground,  through  mere  sluggishness  in  their  de 
livery  !  How  unworthy  of  one,  who  performs  the  high 
functions  of  a  religious  instructer,  upon  whom  depend,  in  a 
great  measure,  the  religious  knowledge,  and  devotional 
sentiments,  and  final  character,  of  many  fellow-beings, — 
to  imagine,  that  he  can  worthily  discharge  this  great  con 
cern,  by  occasionally  talking  for  an  hour,  he  knows  not 
now,  and  in  a  manner  which  he  has  taken  no  pains  to  ren 
der  correct,  impressive,  and  attractive ;  and  which,  simply 
through  want  of  that  command  over  himself,  which  study 
would  give,  is  immethodical,  verbose,  inaccurate,  feeble, 
trifling  It  has  been  said  of  the  good  preacher,  that "  truths 
divine  come  mended  from  his  tongue."  Alas !  they  como 
ruined  and  worthless  from  such  a  man  as  this.  They  lose 
that  holy  energy,  by  which  they  are  to  convert  the  soul  and 
purify  man  for  heaven,  and  sink,  in  interest  and  efficacy, 
below  the  level  of  those  principles,  which  govern  the  ordi 
nary  affairs  of  this  lower  world 


36  COMMOX-PLACE  BOOK  OP  THOSE. 


Ingratitude  towards  the  Deity. — APPLETOJT. 

PERHAPS  there  is  no  crime  which  finds  fewer  advocates 
than  ingratitude.  Persons  accused  of  this  may  deny  the 
charge,  but  they  never  attempt  to  justify  the  disposition 
They  never  say  tliat  there  is  no  obliquity  and  demerit  ia 
being  unmindful  of  benefits.  If  a  moral  fitness  is  discern 
ible  on  any  occasion,  it  is  so  on  an  occasion  of  favours  be 
stowed  and  received.  In  proportion  to  these  favours  is 
the  degree  of  t  emerit  attached  to  ingratitude.  Agreeable 
to  this  is  the  sei  tence  so  often  quoted  from  Publius  Syrus, 
'•  Omne  dixeris  i  xaledictum,  quum  ingratum  hominem  dix- 
eris." 

With  what  fee  ings  do  we  receive  and  enjoy  favours 
bestowed  by  our  C.  eator  !  Our  dependence  on  him  is  ab 
solute  and  universal  Existence  is  not  more  truly  his  gift, 
than  are  all  those  objects,  which  render  existence  valuable. 
To  his  munificence  are  we  indebted  for  intellectual  powers, 
and  the  means  for  their  cultivation ;  for  the  sustenance 
daily  provided  ;  for  the  enjoyments  derived  from  the  ac 
tive  and  varying  scenes  of  the  clay,  and  from  the  rest  and 
tranquillity  of  the  night.  His  gifts  are  the  relations  and 
friends,  whom  we  love,  and  from  whose  affection  to  us  so 
considerable  a  part  of  the  joy  of  life  is  derived.  His  are 
the  showers  which  moisten,  and  the  sun  which  warms  the 
earth.  From  Him  are  the  pleasures  and  animation  of 
spring,  'and  the  riches  of  harvest — all,  that  satisfies  the  ap 
petite,  supports  or  restores  the  animal  system,  gratifies  the 
ear,  or  charms  the  eye.  With  what  emotions,  let  it  be 
asked,  are  all  these  objects  viewed,  and  these  blessings  en 
joyed  ?  Is  it  the  habit  of  man  to  acknowledge  God  in  his 
works,  and  to  attribute  all  his  pleasures  and  security  of  life 
to  the  Creator's  munificence  ?  Possession  and  prosperity 
are  enjoyed  not  as  a  gift  to  the  undeserving,  but  as  the  re 
sult  of  chance  or  good  fortune,  or  as  the  merited  reward  of 
our  own  prudence  and  effort.  Were  gratitude  a  trait  in  the 
human  character,  it  would  be  proportionate  to  obligation  ; 
and  where  much  is  received  much  would  be  acknowledged. 
In  this  the  liveliest  sense  of  obligation  would  be  exhibited 
among  the  wealthy,  and  those  whose  prosperity  had  been 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  37 

long  and  uninterrupted.  But  do  facts  correspond  to  this 
supposition  ?  Arc  God,  his  providence,  and  bounty,  most 
sensibly  and  devoutly  acknowledged  by  you,  who  feel  no 
tvant,  and  are  tried  by  no  adversity  ?  The  truth  is,  our 
sense  of  obligation  usually  diminishes  in  proportion  to  the 
greatness  and  duration  of  blessings  bestowed.  A  long 
course  of  prosperity  renders  us  the  more  insensible  and 
irreligious. 

But  on  no  subject  is  human  ingratitude  so  remarkably 
apparent,  as  in  regard  to  the  Christian  religion.  I  speak 
not  of  those  who  reject,  but  of  those  who  believe  Chris 
tianity,  and  who  of  course  believe  that  "  God  so  loved  the 
world,  as  to  give  his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever 
believeth  on  him  might  not  perish."  Search  all  the  records 
of  every  era  and  nation ;  look  through  the  works  of  God 
so  far  as  they  are  open  to  human  inspection,  and  you  find 
nothing  which  equally  displays  the  riches  of  divine  mercy. 
The  Son  of  God  died  to  save  culprits  from  merited  condem 
nation.  But  is  this  subject  contemplated  with  interest, 
with  joy,  with  astonishment  ?  It  is  viewed  with  the  most 
frigid  indifference  or  heartfelt  reluctance.  The  human 
mind,  far  from  considering  this  as  a  favourite  subject,  flies 
from  it,  when  occasionally  presented. 


Resistance  to  Oppression.* — J.  QUINCY,  JTTN. 

To  complain  of  the  enormities  of  power,  to  expostulate 
with  overgrown  oppressors,  hath  in  all  ages  been  denomi 
nated  sedition  and  faction  ;  and  to  turn  upon  tyrants,  trea 
son  and  rebellion.  But  tyrants  are  rebels  against  the  first 
laws  of  Heaven  and  society ;  to  oppose  their  ravages  is  an 
instinct  of  nature — the  inspiration  of  God  in  the  heart  of 
man.  In  the  noble  resistance  which  mankind  make  to  ex 
orbitant  ambition  and  power,  they  always  feel  that  divine 
afflatus,  which,  paramount  to  every  thing  human,  causes 


*  This  piece  is  extracted  from   "  Observations  on  the  Boston  Port 
Bill,"  first  published  in  1774,  and  recently  reprinted  in  connexion  wnn 
the  Life  of  Mr.  CJu'ncy,  by  his  soij.— ED. 
4 


38  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

them  to  consider  the  Lord  of  Hosts  as  their  leader,  and  his 
angels  as  fellow-soldiers.  Trumpets  are  to  them  joyful 
sounds,  and  the  ensigns  of  war  the  banners  of  God.  Their 
wounds  are  bound  up  in  the  oil  of  a  good  cause ;  sudden 
death  is  to  them  present  martyrdom,  and  funeral  obsequies 
resurrections  to  eternal  honour  and  glory, — their  widows 
and  babes  being  received  into  the  arms  of  a  compassionate 
God,  and  their  names  enrolled  among  David's  worthies  ; — 
greatest  losses  are  to  them  greatest  gains  ;  for  they  leav  i 
the  troubles  of  their  warfare  to  lie  down  on  beds  of  eter 
nal  rest  and  felicity. 


Lafayette  in  the  French  Revolution. — TICKNOR. 

LAFAYETTE  was,  also,  a  prominent  member  of  the 
States  General,  which  met  in  1789,  and  assumed  the  name 
of  the  National  Assembly.  He  proposed,  in  this  body,  a 
Declaration  of  Rights,  not  unlike  our  own,  and  it  was  un 
der  his  influence,  and  while  he  was,  for  this  very  purpose, 
in  the  chair,  that  a  decree  was  passed  on  the  night  of  the 
13th  and  14th  of  July, — at  the  moment  the  Bastile  was  fall 
ing  before  the  cannon  of  the  populace, — which  provided  for 
the  responsibility  of  ministers,  and  thus  furnished  one  of 
the  most  important  elements  of  a  representative  monarchy. 
Two  days  afterwards,  he  was  appointed  commander  in 
chief  of  the  National  Guards  of  Paris,  and  thus  was  placed 
at  the  head  of  what  was  intended  to  be  made,  when  it 
should  be  carried  into  all  the  departments,  the  effective 
military  power  of  the  realm,  and  what,  under  his  wise 
management,  soon  became  such. 

His  great  military  command,  and  his  still  greater  per 
sonal  influence,  now  brought  him  constantly  in  contact 
with  the  throne.  His  position,  therefore,  was  extremely 
delicate  and  difficult,  especially  as  the  popular  party  in 
Paris,  of  which  he  was  not  so  much  the  head  as  the  idol, 
was  already  in  a  state  of  perilous  excitement,  and  atrocious 
violences  were  beginning  to  be  committed.  The  abhor 
rence  of  the  queen  was  almost  universal,  and  was  exces 
sive  to  a  degree  of  which  we  can  have  no  just  idea.  The 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  39 

circumstance  that  the  court  lived  at  Versailles,  sixteen 
miles  from  Paris,  and  that  the  National  Assembly  was  held 
there,  was  another  source  of  jealousy,  irritation,  and  ha 
tred  on  the  part  of  the  capital.  The  people  of  Paris,  there 
fore,  as  a  sign  of  opposition,  had  mounted  their  municipal 
cockade  of  blue  and  red,  whose  effects  were  already  be 
coming  alarming.  Lafayette,  who  was  anxious  about  the 
consequences  of  such  a  marked  division,  and  who  knew 
how  important  are  small  means  of  conciliation,  added  to  it, 
on  the  26th  of  July,  the  white  of  the  royal  cockade,  and, 
as  he  placed  it  in  his  own  hat,  amidst  the  acclamations  of 
the  multitude,  prophesied  that  it  "  would  go  round  the 
world  ;"  a  prediction  that  is  already  more  than  half  ac 
complished,  since  the  tri-coloured  cockade  has  been  used 
for  the  ensign  of  emancipation  in  Spain,  in  Naples,  in  some 
parts  of  South  America,  and  in  Greece. 

Still,  however,  the  tendency  of  every  thing  was  to  con 
fusion  and  violence.  The  troubles  of  the  times,  too,  rather 
than  a  positive  want  of  the  means  of  subsistence,  had 
brought  on  a  famine  in  the  capital ;  and  the  populace  of 
fauxbourgs,  the  most  degraded  certainly  in  France,  having 
assembled  and  armed  themselves,  determined  to  go  to  Ver 
sailles  ;  the  greater  part  with  a  blind  desire  for  vengeance 
on  the  royal  family,  but  others  only  with  the  purpose  of 
bringing  the  king  from  Versailles,  and  forcing  him  to  re 
side  in  the  more  ancient,  but  scarcely  habitable  palace  of 
thft  Thuilleries,  in  the  midst  of  Paris.  The  National 
Guards  clamoured  to  accompany  this  savage  multitude. 
Lafayette  opposed  their  inclination ;  the  municipality  of 
Paris  hesitated,  but  supported  it ;  he  resisted  nearly  the 
whole  of  the  5th  of  October,  while  the  road  to  Versailles 
was  already 'thronged  with  an  exasperated  mob  of  above 
a  hundred  thousand  ferocious  men  and  women,  until,  at 
last,  finding  the  multitude  were  armed,  and  even  had  can 
non,  he  asked  and  received  an  order  to  march  from  the 
competent  authority,  and  set  off  at  four  o'clock  in  the  af 
ternoon,  as  one  going  to  a  post  of  imminent  danger,  which 
it  had  clearly  become  his  duty  to  occupy 

He  arrived  at  Versailles  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  after 
having  been  on  horseback  from  before  daylight  in  the 
morning,  and  having  made,  during  the  whole  interval,  both 


40  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

at  Paris  and  on  the  road,  incredible  exertions  to  control  the 
multitude  and  calm  the  soldiers.  "  The  Marquis  de  La 
fayette  at  last  entered  the  Chateau,"  says  Madame  de  Sta<:l, 
"  and,  passing  through  the  apartment  where  we  were, 
went  to  the  king.  We  all  pressed  round  him  as  if  he  were 
the  master  of  events,  and  yet  the  popular  party  was  already 
more  powerful  than  its  chief,  and  principles  were  yielding 
to  factions,  or  rather  were  beginning  to  serve  as  their  pre 
texts.  M.  de  Lafayette's  manner  was  perfectly  calm  ;  no 
body  ever  saw  it  otherwise  ;  but  his  delicacy  suffered  from 
the  importance  of  the  part  he  was  called  to  act  He  asked 
for  the  interior  posts  of  the  Chateau,  in  order  that  he  might 
ensure  their  safety.  Only  the  outer  posts  were  granted  to 
him."  This  refusal  was  not  disrespectful  to  him  who  made 
the  request.  It  was  given  simply  because  the  etiquette 
of  the  court  reserved  the  guard  of  the  royal  person  and 
family  to  another  body  of  men.  Lafayette,  therefore,  an 
swered  for  the  National  Guards,  and  for  the  posts  commit 
ted  to  them ;  but  he  could  answer  for  no  more ;  and  his 
pledge  was  faithfully  and  desperately  redeemed. 

Between  two  and  three  o'clock,  the  queen  and  the  royal 
family  went  to  bed.  Lafayette,  too,  slept  after  the  great 
fatigues  of  this  fearful  day.  At  half  past  four,  a  portion 
of  the  populace  made  their  way  into  the  palace  by  an  ob 
scure,  interior  passage,  which  had  been  overlooked,  and 
which  was  not  in  that  part  of  the  Chateau  intrusted  to 
Lafajotte.  They  were  evidently  led  by  persons  who  well 
knew  the  secret  avenues.  Mirabeau's  name  was  after 
wards  strangely  compromised  in  it,  and  the  form  of  the  infa 
mous  Duke  of  Orleans  was  repeatedly  recognised  on  the  great 
staircase,  pointing  the  assassins  the  way  to  the  queen's  cham 
ber.  They  easily  found  it.  Two  of  her  guards  were  cut 
down  in  an  instant,  and  she  made  her  escape  almost  naked. 
Lafayette  immediately  rushed  in  with  the  national  troops, 
protected  the  guards  from  the  brutal  populace,  and  saved 
the  lives  of  the  royal  family,  which  had  so  nearly  been  sac 
rificed  to  the  etiquette  of  the  monarchy. 

The  day  dawned,  as  this  fearful  scene  of  guilt  and  blood 
shed  was  passing  in  the  magnificent  palace,  whose  con 
struction  had  exhausted  the  revenues  of  Louis  Fourteenth, 
and  which,  for  a  century,  had  been  the  most  splendid  resi- 


COMMON-PLACi;   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  41 

ilence  in  Europe.  As  soon  as  it  was  light,  the  same  furi 
ous  multitude  filled  the  space,  which,  from  the  rich  mate 
rials  of  which  it  was  formed,  passed  under  the  name  of  the 
Court  of  Marble.  They  called  upon  the  king,  in  tones 
not  to  be  mistaken,  to  go  to  Paris  ;  and  they  called  for  the 
queen,  who  had  but  just  escaped  from  their  daggers,  to 
come  out  upon  the  balcony.  The  king,  after  a  short  con 
sultation  with  his  ministers,  announced  his  intention  to  set 
out  for  the  capital ;  but  Lafayette  was  afraid  to  trust  the 
queen  in  the  midst  of  the  blood-thirsty  multitude.  He 
went  to  her,  therefore,  with  respectful  hesitation,  and  ask 
ed  her  if  it  ^v  sre  her  intention  to  accompany  the  king  to 
Paris.  "  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  although  I  am  aware-of  the 
danger."  "  Are  you  positively  determined  ?"  "  Yes,  sir." 
"  Condescend,  then,  to  go  out  upon  the  balcony,  and  suffer 
me  to  attend  you."  "  Without  the  king  ?" — she  replied, 
hesitating — "  Have  you  observed  the  threats  ?"  "  Yes, 
madam,  I  have  ;  but  dare  to  trust  me."  He  led  her  out 
upon  the  balcony.  It  was  a  moment  of  great  responsibility 
and  great  delicacy  ;  but  nothing,  he  felt  assured,  could  be 
so  dangerous  as  to  permit  her  to  set  out  for  Paris,  surround 
ed  by  that  multitude,  unless  its  feelings  could  be  changed. 
The  agitation,  the  tumult,  the  cries  of  the  crowd,  rendered 
it  impossible  that  his  voice  should  be  heard.  It  was  neces 
sary,  therefore,  to  address  himself  to  the  eye,  and,  turning 
towards  the  queen  with  that  admirable  presence  of  mind 
which  never  yet  forsook  him,  and  with  that  mingled  grace 
and  dignity,  which  were  the  peculiar  inheritance  of  the 
ancient  court  of  France,  he  simply  kissed  her  hand  before 
the  vast  multitude.  An  instant  of  silent  astonishment  fol 
lowed,  but  the  whole  was  immediately  interpreted,  and 
the  air  was  rent  with  cries  of  "  Long  live  the  queen !" 
"  Long  live  the  general !:'  from  the  same  fickle  and  cruel 
populace,  that,  only  two  lours  before,  had  imbrued  their 
hands  in  the  blood  of  the  guards  who  defended  the  life  of 
this  same  queen. 


42  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


Poeta  nascitur,  Orator  fit. — MONTHLY  ANTHOLOGT 

POETRY  is  the  frolic  of  invention,  the  dance  of  words, 
and  the  harmony  of  sounds.  Oratory  consists  in  a  judi 
cious  disposition  of  arguments,  a  happy  selection  of  terms, 
and  a  pleasing  elocution.  The  object  of  poetry  is  to  de 
light,  that  of  oratory  to  persuade.  Poetry  is  truth,  but  it 
is  truth  in  her  gayest  and  loveliest  robes,  and  wit,  flattery, 
hyperbole,  and  fable,  are  marshalled  in  her  train.  Oratory 
has  a  graver  and  more  majestic  port,  and  gains  by  slow  ad 
vances  and  perseverance  what  the  poet  takes  by  sudden 
ness  of  inspiration,  and  by  surprise.  Poetry  requires  ge 
nius;  eloquence  is  within  the  reach  of  talent.  Serious 
ness  becomes  one,  sprightliness  the  other.  The  wittiest 
poets  have  been  the  shortest  writers ;  but  he  is  often  the 
best  orator,  who  has  the  strongest  lungs,  and  the  firmest 
legs.  The  poet  sings  for  the  approbation  of  the  wise  and 
the  pleasure  of  the  ingenious ;  the  orator  addresses  the 
multitude,  and  the  larger  the  number  of  ears,  the  better 
for  his  purpose  ;  and  he  who  can  get  the  most  votes  most 
thoroughly  understands  his  art.  Bad  verses  are  always 
abominable  :  but  he  is  a  good  speaker  who  gains  his  cause. 
Bards  are  generally  remarkable  for  generosity  of  nature; 
orators  are  as  often  notorious  for  their  ambition.  These  en 
joy  most  influence  while  alive ;  those  live  longest  after 
death.  Poets  are  not  necessarily  poor ;  for  Theocritus  and 
Anacreon,  Horace  and  Lucian,  Racine  and  Boileau,  Pope  and 
Addison,  rolled  in  their  carriages,  and  slept  in  palaces  •  yet 
it  must  be  confessed,  that  most  of  the  poetical  tribe  have 
rather  feared  the  tap  of  the  sheriff,  than  the  damnation  of 
critics.  The  poverty  of  a  poet  takes  nothing  from  the 
richness  and  sweetness  of  his  lines  ;  while  an  orator's  suc 
cess  is  not  infrequently  promoted  by  his  wealth.  Never 
theless,  were  I  poor,  I  would  study  eloquence,  that  I  might 
be  rich ;  had  I  riches,  I  would  study  poetry,  that  I  might 
give  a  portion  of  immortality  to  both.  Could  I  write  no 
better  than  Blackmore,  I  would  sometimes  versify ;  but 
were  I  privileged  to  soar  upon  the  daring  wing  of  Dryden's 
muse,  I  would  not  keep  my  pinions  continually  spread. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  43 


Intellectual  Qualities  of  Milton. — CHANGING. 

Irr  speaking  of  the  intellectual  qualities  of  Milton,  we 
may  begin  by  observing  that  the  very  splendour  of  his  poetic 
fame  has  tended  to  obscure  or  conceal  the  extent  of  his 
mind,  and  the  variety  of  its  energies  and  attainments.  To 
many  he  seems  only  a  poet,  when  in  truth  he  was  a  pro 
found  scholar,  a  man  of  vast  compass  of  thought,  imbued 
thoroughly  with  all  ancient  and  modern  learning,  and  able 
to  master,  to  mould,  to  impregnate  with  his  own  intellectu 
al  power,  his  great  and  various  acquisitions.  He  had  not 
learned  the  superficial  doctrine  of  a  later  day,  that  poetry 
flourishes  most  in  an  uncultivated  soil,  and  that  imagination 
shapes  its  brightest  visions  from  the  mists  of  a  superstitious 
age ;  and  he  had  no  dread  of  accumulating  knowledge, 
lest  he  should  oppress  and  smother  his  genius.  He  was 
conscious  of  that  within  him,  which  could  quicken  all 
knowledge,  and  wield  it  with  ease  and  might;  which  could 
give  freshness  to  old  truths,  and  harmony  to  discordant 
thoughts ;  which  could  bind  together,  by  living  ties  and 
mysterious  affinities,  the  most  remote  discoveries ;  and  rear 
fabrics  of  glory  and  beauty  from  the  rude  materials  which 
other  minds  had  collected.  Milton  had  that  universality 
which  marks  the  highest  order  of  intellect.  Though  ac 
customed,  almost  from  infancy,  to  drink  at  the  fountains  of 
classical  literature,  he  had  nothing  of  the  pedantry  and  fas 
tidiousness,  which  disdain  all  other  draughts.  His  heal 
thy  mind  delighted  in  genius,  in  whatever  soil,  or  in  what 
ever  age  it  l.as  burst  forth,  and  poured  out  its  fulness.  He 
understood  too  well  the  right,  and  dignity,  and  pride  of  cre 
ative  imagination,  to  L.y  on  it  the  laws  of  the  Greek  or  Ro 
man  school.  Parnassus  was  not  to  him  the  only  holy  ground 
of  genius  He  felt  that  poetry  was  a  universal  presence, 
Great  minds  were  every  where  his  kindred.  He  felt  the 
enchantment  of  oriental  fiction,  surrendered  himself  to 
the  strange  creations  of  "  Araby  the  blest,"  and  delighted" 
still  more  in  the  romantic  spirit  of  chivalry,  and  in  the  tales 
of  wonder  in  which  it  was  imbodied.  Accordingly,  his 
poetry  reminds  us  of  the  ocean,  which  adds  to  its  own 
boundlessness  contributions  from  all  regions  under  heaven. 


44  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

Nor  was  it  only  in  the  department  of  imagination,  that  hit 
acquisitions  were  vast.  He  travelled  over  the  whole  field  of 
knowledge,  as  far  as  it  had  then  been  explored.  His  various 
philological  attainments  were  used  to  put  him  in  possession 
of  the  wisdom  stored  in  all  countries  where  the  intellect 
had  been  cultivated.  The  natural  philosophy,  metaphys. 
ics,  ethics,  history,  theology  and  political  science  of  his 
own  and  former  times  were  familiar  to  him.  Never  was 
there  a  more  unconfined  mind  ;  and  we  would  cite  Milton 
as  a  practical  example  of  the  benefits  of  that  universal  cul 
ture  of  intellect,  which  forms  one  distinction  of  our  times, 
but  which  some  dread  as  unfriendly  to  original  thought. 
Let  such  remember,  that  mind  is  in  its  own  nature  diffusive. 
Its  object  is  the  universe,  which  is  strictly  one,  or  bound 
together  by  infinite  connexions  and  correspondencies  ;  and, 
accordingly,  its  natural  progress  is  from  one  to  another  field 
of  thought ;  and,  wherever  original  power  or  creative  ge 
nius  exists,  the  mind,  far  from  being  distracted  or  oppressed 
by  the  variety  of  its  acquisitions,  will  see  more  and  more 
bearings,  and  hidden  and  beautiful  analogies  in  all  the  objects 
of  knowledge,  will  see  mutual  light  shed  from  truth  to 
truth,  and  will  compel,  as  with  a  kingly  power,  whatever 
it  understands  to  yield  some  tribute  of  proof,  or  illustration, 
or  splendour,  to  whatever  topic  it  would  unfold. 


National  Recollections  the  Foundation  of  national  Chai- 
acter. — EDWARD  EVERETT. 

AND  how  is  the  spirit  of  a  free  people  to  be  formed,  and 
animated,  and  cheered,  but  out  of  the  store-house  of  its 
historic  recollections  ?  Are  we  to  be  eternally  ringing 
che  changes  upon  Marathon  and  Thermopylas  ;  and  going 
back  to  read  in  obscure  texts  of  Greek  and  Latin  of  the 
exemplars  of  patriotic  virtue  ?  I  thank  God  that  we  can  find 
them  nearer  home,  in  our  own  country,  on  our  own  soil ; — 
that  strains  of  the  noblest  sentiment  that  ever  swelled  in 
the  breast  of  man,  are  breathing  to  us  out  of  every  page 
of  our  country's  history,  in  the  native  eloquence  of  our 
mother  tongue  ; — that  the  colonial  and  provincial  councils 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF   PROSE.  45 

of  America  exhibit  to  us  models  of  the  spirit  and  charac 
ter,  which  gave  Greece  and  Rome  their  name  and  thei* 
praise  among  the  nations.  Here  we  ought  to  go  for  our  in 
struction  ; — the  lesson  is  plain,  it  is  clear,  it  is  applicable. 
When  we  go  to  ancient  history,  we  are  bewildered  with 
the  difference  of  manners  and  institutions.  We  are  willing 
to  pay  our  tribute  of  applause  to  the  memory  of  Leonidas, 
who  fell  nobly  for  his  country  in  the  face  of  his  foe.  But 
when  we  trace  him  to  his  home,  we  are  confounded  at  the 
reflection,  that  the  same  Spartan  heroism,  to  which  he  sacri 
ficed  himself  at  Thermopylae,  would  have  led  him  to  tear 
his  own  child,  if  it  had  happened  to  be  a  sickly  babe, — the 
very  object  for  which  all  that  is  kind  and  good  in  man 
rises  up  to  plead, — from  the  bosom  of  its  mother,  and  carry 
it  out  to  be  eaten  by  the  wolves  of  Taygetus.  We  feel  a 
glow  of  admiration  at  the  heroism  displayed  at  Marathon, 
by  the  ten  thousand  champions  of  invaded  Greece  ;  bu 
we  cannot  forget  that  the  tenth  part  of  the  number  were 
slaves,  unchained  from  the  work-shops  and  door-posts  of 
their  masters,  tc  go  and  fight  the  battles  of  freedom.  I  do 
not  mean  that  these  examples  are  to  destroy  the  interest 
with  which  we  read  the  history  of  ancient  times ;  they 
possibly  increase  that  interest  by  the  very  contrasts  they 
exhibit.  But  they  do  warn  us,  if  we  need  the  warning, 
to  seek  our  great  practical  lessons  of  patriotism  at  home  ;  out 
of  the  exploits  and  sacrifices  of  which  our  own  country  is 
the  theatre ;  out  of  the  charpcters  of  our  own  fathers. 
Them  we  know, — the  high-souled,  natural,  unaffected,  the 
citizen  heroes.  We  know  what  happy  fires'des  they  left 
for  the  cheerless  camp.  We  know  with  what  pacific  habits 
the,  dared  the  perils  of  the  field.  There  is  no  mystery, 
no  romance,  no  madness,  under  the  name  of  chivalry,  about 
them.  It  is  all  resolute,  manly  resistance  for  conscience' 
and  liberty's  sake,  not  merely  of  an  overwhelming  power, 
but  of  all  the  force  of  long-rooted  habits  and  native  love  of 
order  and  peace. 

Above  all,  their  blood  calls  to  us  from  the  soil  which  we 
tread  ;  it  beats  in  our  veins ;  it  cries  to  us  not  merely  in  the 
thrilling  words  of  one  of  the  first  victims  in  this  cause,-— 
"  My  sons,  scorn  to  be  slaves  !" — but  it  cries  with  a  still 
more  moving  eloquence — "  My  sons,  forget  not  your  fa- 


46  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

thers!"  Fast,  oh  !  too  fast,  with  all  our  efforts  to  prevent 
it,  their  precious  memories  are  dying  away.  Notwithstand 
ing  our  numerous  written  memorials,  much  of  what  is 
known  of  those  eventful  times  dwells  but  in  the  recollec 
tions  of  a  few  revered  survivors,  and  with  them  is  rapidly 
perishing  unrecorded  and  irretrievable.  How  many  pru 
dent  counsels,  conceived  in  perplexed  times ;  how  many 
heart-stirring  words,  uttered  when  liberty  was  treason , 
how  many  brave  and  heroic  deeds,  performed  when  the 
halter,  not  the  laurel,  was  the  promised  meed  of  patriotic 
daring, — are  already  lost  and  forgotten  in  the  graves  of  their 
authors!  How  little  do  we, — although  we  have  been  per 
mitted  to  hold  converse  with  the  venerable  remnants  oi 
that  day, — how  little  do  we  know  of  their  dark  and  anx- 
.ous  hours  ;  of  their  secret  .meditations ;  of  the  hurried 
and  perilous  events  of  the  momentous  struggle !  And  while 
they  are  dropping  around  us  like  the  leaves  of  autumn, 
while  scarce  a  week  passes  that  does  not  call  away  some 
member  of  the  veteran  ranks,  already  so  sadly  thinned, 
shall  we  make  no  effort  to  hand  down  the  traditions  of  their 
day  to  our  children  ;  to  pass  the  torch  of  liberty, — which 
we  received  in  all  the  splendour  of  its  first  enkindling, — • 
bright  and  flaming,  to  those  who  stand  next  us  on  the 
line ;  so  that,  when  we  shall  come  to  be  gathered  to  the 
dust  where  our  fathers  are  laid,  we  may  say  to  our  sons 
and  our  grandsons,  "  If  we  did  not  amass,  we  have  rot 
squandered  your  inheritance  of  glory  ?" 


Extract  from  the  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow. — IRVING. 

ON  a  fine  autumnal  morning,  Ichabod,  in  pensive  mood, 
sat  enthroned  on  a  lofty  stool,  from  whence  he  usually 
watched  all  the  concerns  of  his  little  literary  realm.  In 
his  hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  sceptre  of  despotic  pow 
er  ;  the  birch  of  justice  reposed  on  three  nails  behind  the 
throne,  a  constant  terror  to  evil  doers  ;  while  on  the  desk  be 
fore  him  might  be  seen  sundry  contraband  articles  and  prohib 
ited  weapons,  detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins;  such 
as  half-munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  flycages,  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 


47 


whole  legions  of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Appa 
rently  there  had  been  some  act  of  justice  recently  iuliict- 
ed  ;  for  his  scholars  were  all  busily  intent  upon  their  books, 
or  slyly  whispering  behind  them,  with  one  eye  kept  upon 
the  master ;  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned 
throughout  the  school-room-.  It  was  suddenly  interrupted 
by  the  appearance  of  a  negro  in  tcw-cloth  jacket  and  trow 
sers,  a  round-crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of 
Mercury,  and  mounted  on  a  ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt, 
v/hich  he  managed  with  a  rope,  by  wny  of  halter.  He 
came  clattering  up  to  the  school-door,  with  an  invitation  to 
Ichabod  to  attend  a  merry-making,  or  "  quilting  frolic," 
to  be  held  that  evening  at  Mynheer  Van  Tassel's  ;  and,  hav 
ing  delivered  his  message  with  that  air  of  importance,  and 
effort  of  fine  language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to  display  on 
petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the  brook,  and 
was  seen  scampering  away  up  the  hollow,  full  of  the  im 
portance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  school 
room.  The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their  lessons 
without  stopping  at  trifles ;  those  who  were  nimble  skip 
ped  over  half  with  impunity,  and  those  who  were  tardy 
had  a  smart  application  now  and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quick 
en  their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  woid.  Books  were 
thrown  aside  without  being  put  away  on  the  shelves  ;  ink- 
atands  were  overturned,  benches  thrown  down,  and  the 
whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour  before  the  usual 
time  ;  bursting  forth  like  a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping 
and  racketing  about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  eman 
cipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half- 
hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best,  and 
indeed  only,  suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  looks  by 
abit  of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in  the  school 
house  That  he  might  make  his  appearance  before  his  mis- 
tresi  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse 
from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  was  domiciliated,  a  chol 
eric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and, 
thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued  forth  like  a  knight  errant 
in  quest  of  adventures. — But  it  is  fit  that  I  should,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  account  of  the 


48  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

looks  and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his  steed.  The  ani 
mal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse,  that  had 
outlived  almost  every  thing  but  his  viciousness.  He  was 
gaunt  and  shagged,  with  an  ewe  neck,  and  a  head  like  a 
hammer  ;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and  knot 
ted  with  burrs ;  one  eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring 
and  spectral,  but  the  other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine 
devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day, 
if  we  may  judge  from  his  name,  which  was  Gunpowder.  He 
had,  in  fact,  been  a  favourite  steed  of  his  master's,  the  chole 
ric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious  rider,  and  had  infused, 
very  probably,  some  of  his  spirit  into  the  animal ;  for,  old  and 
broken  down  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurking 
devil  in  him  than  in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He 
rode  with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly 
up  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out 
like  grasshoppers' ;  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in 
his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as  his  horse  jogged  on,  the  mo 
tion  of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of 
wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose, — • 
for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  a  forehead  might  be  called, — and 
the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  flirted  out  almost  to  the  horse's 
tail.  Such  was  the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed, 
as  he  shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and 
it  was  altogether  such  an  apparition  as  is  rarely  to  be  me: 
with  in  broad  day-light. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day,  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden 
livery,  which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abun 
dance.  The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yel 
low,  while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nip 
ped  by  the  frosts  into  brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and 
scarlet.  Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their 
appearance  high  in  the  air ;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might 
be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory  nuts,  and 
the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals  from  the  neigh 
bouring  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets. 
In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry  they  fluttered,  chirping 
and  frolicking  from  bush  to  bush  and  tree  to  tree,  capri- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  1  ROSE.  49 

clous  from  the  very  abundance  around  them.  There  was 
the  honest  cock-robin,  the  favourite  game  of  stripling 
sportsmen,  with  its  loud,  querulous  note  ;  and  the  twitter 
ing  blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds  ;  and  the  golden- wing- 
e  I  woodpecker,  with  his  crimson  crest,  his  broad  black  gor 
ged  and  splendid  plumage ;  and  the  cedar  bird,  with  its 
red-t'pped  wings  and  yellow-tipped  tail,  and  its  little  montero 
cap  of  ferthers;  and  the  blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in 
his  gay  light-blue  coat  and  white  under-clothes,  screaming 
and  chattering,  nodding,  and  bobbing,  and  bowing,  and  pre 
tending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the 
grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever 
open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with 
delight  over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides 
he  beheld  vast  store  of  apples,  some  hanging  in  oppressive 
opulence  on  the  trees  ;  some  gathered  into  baskets  and  bar 
rels  for  the  market ;  others  heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  the 
cider-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian 
corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy  coverts, 
and  holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty  puddings  ; 
and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up 
their  fair  rouud  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  pros 
pects  of  the  most  luxurious  pies;  and  anon  he  passed  the 
fragrant  buckwheat  fields,  breathing  the  odour  of  rJ33  'bee 
hive,  and,  as  he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over 
his  mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and  garnished 
with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dimpled  hand 
of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and 
"  sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a 
range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest 
scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheel 
ed  his  broad  disk  down  nu.'  the  west;  the  wide  bosom  of 
the  Tapaan  Zee  lay  motionless  ±t"  flossy,  excepting  that, 
here  and  there,  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  prolonged 
*he  blue  shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few  amber 
clouds  floated  in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move 
them.  The  horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing 
gradually  into  a  pure  apple  green,  and  from  that  into  the 
deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the 


60  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

woody  crests  of  the  precipices,  that  overhung  some  parts 
of  the  river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  dark  gray  and 
purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the 
distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her  sail 
jnanging  uselessly  against  the  mast ;  and,  as  the  reflection 
of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  towards  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  cas 
tle  of  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged  with  the 
pride  and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country  Old  farmers,  a  spare , 
leatherned-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches,  blue 
stockings,  huge  shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles. 
Their  brisk,  withered  little  dames,  in  close-crimped  caps, 
long-waisted  gowns,  homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and 
pincushions,  and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside. 
Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  except 
ing  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  riband,  or  perhaps  a  white 
frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innovations.  The  sons  in  short 
square-skirted  coats,  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  buttons, 
and  their  hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times, 
especially  if  they  could  procure  aneelskin  for  the  purpose, 
it  being  esteemed  throughout  the  country  as  a  potent  nour- 
isher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  hav 
ing  come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favourite  steed  Daredevil, 
a  creature,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and 
which  no  one  but  himself  could  manage.  He  was  in  fact 
noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of 
tricks,  which  kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck, 
for  he  held  a  tractable,  wellbroken  horse  as  unworthy  a  lad 
of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms 
that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero  as  he  en* 
tered  the  .state  parlour  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion  :  not  those 
of  the  bevy  of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of 
red  and  white  ;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch 
country  tea-table  in  the  sumptuous  time  of  autumn.  Such 
heaped-up  platters  of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  indescri 
bable  kinds,  known  only  to  the  experienced  Dutch  house 
wives  !  There  was  the  doughty  dough-nut,  the  tender  oly 
koek,  and  the  crisp  and  crumbling  cruller,  sweet  cakes  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF   I  HOSE.  51 

short  cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole 
family  of  cakes.  And  then  there  were  apple  es,  and 
peach  pies,  and  pumpkin  pies  ;  besides  slices  of  ham  and 
smoked  beef;  and,  moreover,  delectable  dishes  of  preserved 
plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces ;  not  to  men 
tion  broiled  shad  and  roasted  chickens ;  together  with  bowls 
of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty 
much  as  I  have  enumerated  them,  with  the  motherly  tea- 
pof  seeding  up  its  clouds  of  vapour  from  the  midst.  Hea 
ven  bless  the  mark !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this 
banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my 
story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry 
as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every  dainty. 


Reflections  on  the  Settlement  of  New  England. 
WEBSTER. 

THE  settlement  of  New  England,  by  the  colony  which 
landed  here  on  the  twenty-second  of  December,  sixteen  hun 
dred  and  twenty,  although  not  the  first  European  establish 
ment  in  what  now  constitutes  the  United  States,  was  yet  so 
peculiar  in  its  causes  and  character,  and  has  been  followed, 
and  must  still  be  followed,  by  such  consequences,  as  to 
give  it  a  high  claim  to  lasting  commemoration.  On  these 
causes  and  consequences,  more  than  on  its  immediately  at 
tendant  circumstances,  its  importance,  as  an  historical  event, 
depends.  Great  actions  and  striking  occurrences,  having 
excited  a  temporary  admiration,  often  pass  away  and  are 
forgotten,  because  they  leave  no  lasting  results,  affecting 
the  prosperity  of  communities.  Such  is  frequently  the  for 
tune  of  the  most  brilliant  military  achievements.  Of  the 
ten  thousand  battles  which  have  been  fought ;  of  all  the 
fie'ds  fertilized  with  carnage  ;  of  the  banners  which  have 
been  bathed  in  blood;  of  the  warriors  who  have  hoped 
that  they  had  risen  from  the  field  of  conquest  to  a  glory  as 
bright  and  as  durable  as  the  stars,  how  few  that  continue 
long  to  interest  mankind  !  The  victory  of  yesterday  is  re 
versed  by  the  defeat  of  to-day ;  the  star  of  military  glory, 
rising  like  a  meteor,  like  a  meteor  has  fallen ;  disgrace  and 


62  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE 

disaster  hang  on  the  heels  of  conquest  and  renown ;  victaf 
and  vanquished  presently  pass  away  to  oblivion,  and  the 
world  holds  on  its  course,  with  the  loss  only  of  so  many 
lives,  and  so  much  treasure. 

But  if  this  is  frequently,  or  generally,  the  fortune  of  military 
achievements,  it  is  not  always  so.  There  are  enterprises,  mili 
tary  as  well  as  civil,  that  sometirres  check  the  current  of 
events,  give  a  new  turn  to  human  affairs,  and  transmit  their 
consequences  through  ages.  We  see  their  importance  in  their 
results,  and  call  them  great,  because  great  things  follow. 
There  have  been  battles  which  have  fixed  the  fate  of  na 
tions.  These  come  down  to  us  in  history  with  *.  solid  and 
permanent  influence,  not  created  by  a  display  of  glittering 
armour,  the  rush  of  adverse  battalions,  the  sinking  and  ris- 
ingof  pennons,  the  flight,  the  pursuit,  and  the  victory ; 
butrby  their  effect  in  advancing  or  retarding  human  knowl 
edge,  in  overthrowing  or  establishing  despotism,  in  extend 
ing  or  destroying  human  happiness.  When  the  traveller 
pauses  on  the  plains  of  Marathon,  what  are  the  emotions 
which  strongly  agitate  hLs  breast  ?  what  is  that  glorious  re 
collection  that  thrills  through  his  frame,  and  suffuses  his 
eyes  ?  Not,  I  imagine,  that  Grecian  skill  and  Grecian 
valour  were  here  most  signally  displayed  ;  but  that  Greece 
herself  was  saved.  It  is  because  to  this  spot,  and  to  the 
event  which  has  rendered  it  immortal,  he  refers  all  the 
succeeding  glories  of  the  republic.  It  is  because,  if  that 
day  had  gone  otherwise,  Greece  had  perished.  It  is  be 
cause  he  perceives  that  her  philosophers  and  orators,  her 
poets  and  painters,  her  sculptors  and  architects,  her  gov 
ernment  and  free  institutions,  point  backward  to  Mara 
thon,  and  that  their  future  existence  seems  to  have  been 
suspended  on  the  contingency,  whether  the  Persian  or  Gre 
cian  banner  should  wave  victorious  in  the  beams  cf  that 
day's  setting  sun.  And,  as  his  imagination  kindles  at  the 
retrospect,  he  is  transported  back  to  the  interesting  mo 
ment  ;  he  counts  the  fearful  odds  of  the  contending  hosts ; 
his  interest  for  the  result  overwhelms  him;  he  trembles  ai 
if  it  were  still  uncertain,  and  seems  to  doubt  whether 
he  may  consider  Socrates  and  Plato,  Demosthenes,  Sopho 
cles,  and  Phidias,  as  secure,  yet,  to  himself  and  to  the 
world. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PKOSE.  63 

"  If  we  conquer," — said  the  Athenian  commander  on 
the  morning  of  that  decisive  day, — "  if  we  conquer,  we 
shall  make  Athens  the  greatest  city  of  Greece."  A  proph 
ecy  how  well  fulfilled  !  "  if  God  prosper  us," — might 
have  been  the  more  appropriate  language  of  our  fathers, 
when  they  landed  upon  this  rock, — "  if  God  prosper  us., 
we  shall  here  begin  a  work  that  shall  last  for  ages ;  we 
shall  plant  here  a  new  society,  in  the  principles  of  the 
fullest  liberty,  and  the  purest  religion ;  we  shall  subdue 
this  wilderness  which  is  before  us  ;  we  shall  fill  this  re 
gion  of  the  great  continent,  which  stretches  almost  from  pole 
to  pole,  with  civilization  and  Christianity ;  the  temples  of  the 
true  God  shall  rise  where  now  ascends  the  smoke  of  idola 
trous  sacrifice  ;  fields  and  gardens,  the  flowers  of  summer, 
and  the  waving  and  golden  harvests  of  autumn,  shall  ex 
tend  over  a  thousand  hills,  and  stretch  along  a  thousand 
valleys,  never  yet,  since  the  creation,  reclaimed  to  the  use 
of  civilized  man.  We  shall  whiten  this  coast  with  the  can 
vass  of  a  prosperous  commerce  ;  we  shall  stud  the  long  and 
winding  shore  with  a  hundred  cities.  That  which  we 
sow  in  weakness  shall  be  raised  in  strength.  From  our 
sincere,  but  houseless  worship,  there  shall  spring  splendid 
temples  to  record  God's  goodness  ;  from  the  simplicity  of 
our  social  union,  there  shall  arise  wise  and  politic  constitu 
tions  of  governiiient,  full  of  the  liberty  which  we  ourselves 
bring  and  breathe ;  from  our  zeal  for  learning,  institutions 
shall  spring,  which  shall  scatter  the  light  of  knowledge 
throughout  the  land,  and,  in  time,  paying  back  what  they 
have  borrowed,  shall  contribute  their  part  to  the  great  ag 
gregate  of  human  knowledge  ;  and  our  descendants,  through 
all  generations,  shall  look  back  to  this  spot,  and  this  hour, 
with  unabated  affection  and  regard." 


Forest  Scenery. — PATJLDING. 

BY  degrees,  as  custom  reconciled  me  more  and  more  to 
fasting  and  long  rambles,  I  extended  my  excursions  farther 
from  home,  and  sometimes  remained  out  all  day  without 
tasting  food,  or  resting  myself,  except  for  a  few  minutes 


64  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PttOSE. 

upon  the  trunk  of  some  decayed  old  tree  or  moss-covered 
rock.  The  country,  though  in  a  great  degree  in  its  native 
state  of  wildness,  was  full  of  romantic  beauties.  The  Mo 
hawk  is  one  of  the  most  charming  of  rivers,  sometimes 
brawling  among  ragged  rocks,  or  darting  swiftly  through  long, 
narrow  reaches,  and  here  and  there,  as  at  the  Little  Falls, 
and  again  at  the  Cohoes,  darting  down  high  perpendicular 
rocks,  in  sheets  of  milk-white  foam ;  but  its  general  charac 
ter  is  that  of  repose  and  quiet.  It  is  no  where  so  broad, 
but  that  rural  objects  and  rural  sounds  may  be  seen  and 
heard  distinctly  from  one  side  to  the  other  ;  and  in  many 
places  the  banks  on  either  hand  are  composed  of  rich  mead 
ows,  or  flats,  as  they  were  denominated  by  the  early  Dutch 
settlers,  so  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  surface  of  the  water, 
as  to  be  almost  identified  with  it  at  a  distance,  were  it  not 
for  the  rich  fringe  of  water  willows,  that  skirt  it  on  either 
side,  and  mark  the  lines  of  separation.  In  these  rich  pas 
tures  may  now  be  seen  the  lowing  herds,  half  hidden  in 
the  luxuriant  grass,  and,  a  little  farther  on,  out  of  the  reach 
of  the  spring  freshets,  the  comfortable  farm-houses  of 
many  a  sanguine  country  squire,  who  dreams  of  boundless 
wealth  from  the  Grand  Canal,  and,  in  his  admiration  of  the 
works  of  man,  forgets  the  far  greater  beauty,  grandeur, 
and  utility  of  the  works  of  his  Maker.  But  I  am  to  de 
scribe  the  scenery  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  my  boyhood, 
when,  like  Nimrod,  I  was  a  mighty  hunter  before  the 
Lord. 

At  the  time  I  speak  of,  all  that  was  to  be  seen  was  of  the 
handy  work  of  nature,  except  the  little  settlement,  over 
which  presided  the  patriarch  Veeder.  We  were  the  ad 
vance  guard  of  civilization,  and  a  few  steps  beyond  us  was 
the  region  of  primeval  forests,  composed  of  elms  and  ma 
ples,  and  oaks  and  pines,  that  seemed  as  if  their  seeds  had 
been  sown  at  the  time  of  the  deluge,  and  that  they  had 
been  growing  ever  since.  I  have  still  a  distinct  recollec 
tion,  I  might  almost  say  perception,  of  the  gloom  and  damps 
which  pervaded  these  chilling  shades,  where  the  summer 
sun  never  penetrated,  and  in  whose  recesses  the  very  light 
was  of  a  greenish  hue.  Here,  especially  along  the  little 
streams,  many  of  which  are  now  dried  up  by  the  opening  of 
the  earth  to  the  sun-beams,  every  rock  and  piece  of  mould- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE.  55 

ering  wood  was  wrapped  in  a  carpet  of  green  moss,  fostered 
into  more  than  velvet  luxuriance  by  the  everlasting  damps, 
that,  unlike  the  dews  of  heaven,  fell  all  the  day  as  well  as 
all  the  night.  Here  and  there  a  flower  reared  its  pale 
head  among  the  rankness  of  the  sunless  vegetation  of  un 
sightly  fungus,  but  it  was  without  fragrance,  and  almost 
without  life,  for  it  withered  as  soon  as  plucked  from  the 
•tern.  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  heard  a  singing 
bird  in  these  forests,  except  just  on  the  outer  skirts,  front 
ing  the  south,  where  occasionally  a  robin  chirped,  or  a 
thrush  sung  his  evening  chant.  These  tiny  choristers  seem 
almost  actuated  by  the  vanity  of  human  beings  ;  for  I  have 
observed  they  appear  to  take  peculiar  delight  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  the  habitations  of  men,  where  they  have  listen 
ers  to  their  music.  They  do  not  love  to  sing  where  there 
is  no  one  to  hear  them.  The  rery  insects  of  the  wing 
seemed  almost  to  have  abandoned  the  gloomy  solitude,  to 
sport  in  the  sunshine  among  the  flowers.  Neither  butter 
fly  nor  grasshopper  abided  there,  and  the  honey-bee  never 
came  to  equip  himself  in  his  yellow  breeches.  He  is  the 
companion  of  the  white  man,  and  seems  content  to  be  his 
slave,  to  toil  for  him  all  the  summer,  only  that  he  may  be 
allowed  the  enjoyment  of  the  refuse  of  his  own  labpurs  in 
the  winter.  To  plunge  into  the  recesses  of  these  woods, 
was  like  descending  into  a  cave  under  ground.  There 
was  the^coolness,  the  dampness,  and  the  obscurity  of  twi 
light.  Yet  custom  made  me  love  these  solitudes,  and 
many  are  the  days  I  have  spent  among  them,  with  my  dog 
and  gun,  and  no  other  guide  but  the  sun  in  heaven  and  the 
moss  on  the  north  side  of  the  trees. 


Influence  of  CJiristianity  in  elevating  the  female 
Character. — J.  G.  CARTER. 

THEHE  is  one  topic,  intimately  connected  with  the  intro 
duction  and  decline  of  Christianity,  and  subsequently  with 
*ts  revival  in  Europe,  which  the  occasion  strongly  suggests, 
and  whiclv  I  cnnnot  forbear  briefly  to  touch  upon.  I  allude 
to  the  new  and  irore  -xteresting  character  assumed  by  wo« 


66  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROfJE. 

man  since  those  events.  In  the  heathen  world,  and  undei 
the  Jewish  dispensation,  she  was  the  slave  of  man.  Chris 
tianity  constituted  her  his  companion.  But,  as  our  religion 
gradually  lost  its  power  in  the  dark  ages,  she  sunk  down 
again  to  her  deep  moral  degradation.  She  was  the  first  to 
fall  in  the  garVlen  of  Eden,  and  perhaps  it  was  a  judgment 
upon  her,  that,  when  the  whole  human  race  was  now  low, 
she  sunk  the  lowest,  and  was  the  last  to  rise  again  to  her 
original  consequence  in  the  scale  of  being.  The  £.ge  of 
chivalry,  indeed,  exalted  her  to  be  an  object  of  adoration. 
But  it  was  a  profane  adoration,  not  founded  upon  the  respect 
due  to  a  being  of  immortal  hopes  and  destinies  as  well  as 
man.  This  high  character  has  been  conceded  to  her  at 
a  later  period,  as  she  has  slowly  attained  the  rank  ordained 
for  her  by  Heaven.  Although  this  change  in  the  relation  of 
woman  to  man  and  to  society  is  both  an  evidence  and  a  conse 
quence  of  an  improvement  in  the  human  condition,  yet  now 
her  character  is  a  cause  operating  to  produce  a  still  great 
er  improvement.  And  if  there  be  any  one  cause,  to  which 
we  may  look  with  more  confidence  than  to  others,  for  has 
tening  the  approach  of  a  more  perfect  state  of  society, 
that  cause  is  the  elevated  character  of  woman  as  displayed 
in  the  full  developement  of  all  her  moral  and  intellectual 
powers.  The  conjugal  confession  of  Eve  to  Adam, 

"  God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine  ;  to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise," 

has  grown  to  be  obsolete.  The  influence  of  the  female 
character  is  now  felt  and  acknowledged  in  all  the  relations 
of  her  life.  I  speak  not  now  of  those  distinguished  wo 
men,  who  instruct  their  age  through  the  public  press  ;  nor 
of  those  whose  devout  strains  we  U.ke  upon  our  lips  when 
we  worship ;  but  of  a  much  larger  class ;  of  those  whose 
influence  is  felt  in  the  relations  of  neighbour,  friend,  daugh 
ter,  wife,  mother.  Who  waits  at  the  couch  of  the  sick  to 
administer  tender  charities  while  life  lingers,  or  to  perform 
the  last  acts  of  kindness  when  death  comes  ?  Where  shall 
we  look  for  those  examples  of  friendship,  that  most  adorn 
our  nature  ;  those  abiding  friendships,  which  trust  even 
when  betrayed,  and  survive  all  changes  of  fortune  ?  Where 
shall  we  find  the  ^hri^htest  illustrations  of  filial  piety' 


COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  57 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  daughter,  herself,  perhaps,  timid 
and  helpless,  watching  the  decline  of  an  aged  parent,  and 
holding  out  with  heroic  fortitude  to  anticipate  his  wishes, 
to  administer  to  his  wants,  and  to  sustain  his  tottering  steps 
to  the  very  borders  of  the  grave  ? 

But  in  no  relation  does  woman  exercise  so  deep  an  influ 
ence,  both  immediately  and  prospectively,  as  in  that  of 
mother.  To  her  is  committed  the  immortal  treasure  of  the 
infant  mind.  Upon  her  devolves  the  care  of  the  first 
stages  of  that  course  of  discipline,  which  is  to  form,  of  a 
being  perhaps  the  most  frail  and  helpless  in  the  world,  the 
fearless  ruler  of  animated  creation,  and  the  devout  ador 
er  of  its  great  Creator.  Her  smiles  call  into  exercise  the 
first  affections  that  spring  up  in  our  hearts.  She  cher 
ishes  and  expands  the  earliest  germs  of  our  intellects 
She  breathes  over  us  her  deepest  devotions.  She  lifts  our 
little  hands,  and  teaches  our  little  tongues  to  lisp  in  prayer. 
She  watches  over  us,  like  a  guardian  angel,  and  protects 
us  through  all  our  helpless  years,  when  we  know  not  of 
her  cares  and  her  anxieties  on  our  account.  She  follows 
us  into  the  world  of  men,  and  lives  in  us,  and  blesses  us, 
when  she  lives  not  otherwise  upon  the  earth.  What  con 
stitutes  the  centre  of  every  home  ?  Whither  do  our 
thoughts  turn,  when  our  feet  are  weary  with  wandering, 
and  our  hearts  sick  with  disappointment  ?  Where  shall  the 
truant  and  forgetful  husband  go  for  sympathy,  unalloyed 
and  without  design,  hut  to  the  bosom  of  her,  who  is  ever 
ready  and  waiting  to  share  in  his  adversity  or  his  prosperi 
ty.  And  if  there  he  a  tribunal,  where  the  sins  and  the  fol 
lies  of  a  froward  child  may  hope  for  pardon  and  forgive 
ness  ihis  side  heaven,  that  tribunal  is  the  heart  of  a  fond 
and  devoted  mother. 


Necessity  of  a  pure  national  Morality. — BEECHER. 

THE  crisis  has  come.  BJT  the  people  of  this  generation, 
by  ourselves,  probably,  the  amazing  question  is  to  be  de 
cided,  whether  the  inheritance  of  our  fathers  shall  be  pre 
served  or  thrown  away  ;  whether  our  Sabbaths  shall  be  a 


L. 


58  COMMON-PLACE  BOOR  OP  PROSE. 

delight  or  a  loathing ;  whether  the  taverns,  on  that  holj 
day,  shall  be  crowded  with  drunkards,  or  the  sanctuary  of 
God  with  humble  worshippers ;  whether  riot  and  profane- 
ness  shall  fill  our  streets,  and  poverty  our  dwellings,  and 
convicts  our  jails,  and  violence  our  land,  or  whether  indus 
try,  and  temperance,  and  righteousness,  shall  be  the  stability 
of  our  times  ;  whether  mild  laws  shall  receive  the  cheer 
ful  submission  of  freemen,  or  the  iron  rod  of  a  tyrant  com 
pel  the  trembling  homage  of  slaves.  Be  not  dpceived. 
Human  nature  in  this  state  is  like  human  nat'ire  every 
where.  All  actual  difference  in  our  favour  is  adventitious, 
and  the  result  of  our  laws,  institutions,  and  habits.  It  is  a 
Moral  influence,  which,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  has  form 
ed  a  state  of  society  so  eminently  desirable.  The  same  in 
fluence  which  formed  it  is  indispensable  to  its  preservation. 
The  rocks  and  hills  of  New  England  will  remain  till  the 
last  conflagration.  But  let  the  Sabbath  be  profaned  with 
impunity,  the  worship  of  God  be  abandoned,  the  govern 
ment  and  religious  instruction  of  children  neglected,  and 
the  streams  of  intemperance  be  permitted  to  flow,  and  her 
glory  will  depart.  The  wall  of  fire  will  no  longer  sur 
round  her,  and  the  munition  of  rocks  will  no  longer  be  her 
defence. 

If  we  neglect  our  duty,  and  suffer  our  laws  and  institu 
tions  to  go  down,  we  give  them  up  forever.  It  is  easy  to 
relax,  easy  to  retreat ;  but  impossible,  when  the  abomina 
tion  of  desolation  has  once  passed  over  New  England,  to 
rear  again  the  thrown-down  altars,  and  gather  again  the 
fragments,  and  build  up  the  ruins  of  demolished  institutions. 
Another  New  England  nor  we  nor  our  children  shall  ever 
see,  if  this  be  destroyed.  All  is  lost  irretrievably  when 
the  landmarks  are  once  removed,  and  the  bands  which  now 
hold  us  are  once  broken.  Such  institutions  and  such  a 
state  of  society  can  be  established  only  by  such  men  as 
our  fathers  were,  and  in  such  circumstances  as  they  were 
in.  They  could  not  have  made  a  New  England  in  Hol 
land  ;  they  made  the  attempt,  but  failed. 

The  hand  that  overturns  our  laws  and  temples  is  the 
hand  of  death  unbarring  the  gate  of  Pandemonium,  and 
letting  loose  upon  our  land  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  Hell. 
If  the  Most  High  shoul  1  stand  aloof,  and  cast  not  a  sirgle 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  69 

ingredient  into  our  cup  of  trembling,  it  would  seem  to  be 
full  of  superlative  wo.  But  he  will  not  stand  aloof.  As 
we  shall  have  begun  an  open  controversy  with  him,  he  will 
contend  openly  with  us.  And  never,  since  the  earth  stood, 
has  it  been  so  fearful  a  tiling  for  nations  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  living  God.  The  day  of  vengeance  is  at 
hand  the  day  of  judgment  has  come  ;  the  great  earth 
quake  which  sinks  Babylon  is  shaking  the  nations,  and  the 
waves  of  the  mighty  commotion  are  dashing  upon  every 
shore.  Is  this,  then,  a  time  to.  remove  the  foundations, 
when  the  earth  itself  is  shaken  ?  Is  this  a  time  to  forfeit 
the  protection  of  God,  when  the  hearts  of  men  are  failing 
them  for  fear,  and  for  looking  after  those  things  which  are 
to  come  upon  the  earth  ?  Is  this  a  time  to  run  upon  his 
neck  and  the  thick  bosses  of  his  buckler,  when  the  nations 
are  drinking  blood,  and  fainting,  anil  passing  away  in  his 
wrath  ?  Is  this  a  time  to  throw  away  the  shield  of  faith, 
when  his  arrows  are  drunk  with  the  blood  of  the  slain  ?  to 
cut  from  the  anchor  of  hope,  when  the  clouds  are  collect 
ing,  and  the  sea  and  the  waves  are  roaring,  and  thun 
ders  are  uttering  their  voices,  and  lightnings  blazing  in 
the  heavens,  and  the  great  hail  is  falling  from  heaven  upon 
men,  and  every  mountain,  sea  and  island  is  fleeing  in  dis 
may  from  the  face  of  an  incensed  God  ? 


Value  of  religious  Faith. — BUCKMINSTER. 

WHO  would  look  back  upon  the  history  of  the  world 
with  the  eye  of  incredulity,  after  having  once  read  it  with 
th-e  eye  of  faith  ?  To  the  man  of  faith  it  is  the  story  of 
God's  operations.  To  the  unbeliever  it  is  only  the  record 
of  the  strange  sports  of  a  race  of  agents  as  uncontrolled  as 
they  are  unaccountable.  To  the  man  of  faith  every  por 
tion  of  history  is  part  of  a  vast  plan,  conceived  ages  ago  in 
the  mind  of  Omnipotence,  which  has  been  fitted  precisely 
to  the  period  it  was  intended  to  occupy.  The  whole  series 
of  events  forms  a  magnificent  and  symmetrical  fabric  to 
the  eye  of  pious  contemplation ;  and,  though  the  dome  be 
in  the  clouds,  and  the  top,  from  its  loftiness,  be  indisceru- 


60  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ble  to  mortal  vision,  yet  the  foundations  are  so  deep 
and  solid,  that  we  .are  sure  they  are  intended  to  support 
something  permanent  and  grand.  To  the  sceptic,  all  the 
events  of  all  the  ages  of  the  world  are  but  a  scattered 
crowd  of  useless  and  indigested  materials.  In  his  mind 
all  is  darkness,  all  is  incomprehensible.  The  light  of 
prophecy  illuminates  not  to  him  the  obscurity  of  anciert 
annals.  He  sees  in  them  neither  design  nor  operation, 
neither  tendencies  nor  conclusions.  To  him  the  wonderful 
knowledge  of  one  people  is  just  as  interesting  as  the  des 
perate  ignorance  of  another.  In  the  deliverance  which 
God  has  sometimes  wrought  for  the  oppressed,  he  sees 
nothing  but  the  fact ;  and  in  the  oppression  and  decline  of 
haughty  empires,  nothing  but  the  common  accidents  of  na 
tional  fortune.  Going  about  to  account  for  events  accord 
ing  to  what  he  calls  general  laws,  he  never  for  a  moment 
considers,  that  all  laws,  whether  physical,  political  or  moral, 
imply  a  legislator,  and  are  contrived  to  serve  some  purpose. 
Because  he  cannot  always,  by  his  short-sighted  vision,  dis 
cover  the  tendencies  of  the  mighty  events  of  which  this 
earth  has  been  the  theatre,  he  looks  on  the  drama  of  ex 
istence  around  him  as  proceeding  without  a  plan.  Is  that 
principle,  then,  of  no  importance,  which  raises  man  above 
what  hi?  eyes  see  or  his  ears  hear  at  present,  and  shows 
him  the  vast  chain  of  human  events,  fastened  eternally  to 
the  throne  of  God,  and  returning,  after  embracing  the 
universe,  again  to  link  itself  to  the  footstool  of  Omnipo 
tence  ? 

Would  you  know  the  value  of  this  principle  of  faith  to 
the  bereaved  ?  Go,  and  follow  a  corpse  to  the  grave.  See 
the  body  deposited  there,  and  hear  the  earth  thrown  in  upon 
all  that  remains  of  your  friend.  Return  now,  if  you  will, 
and  brood  over  the  lesson  which  your  senses  have  given 
you,  and  derive  from  it  what  consolation  you  can.  You 
have  learned  nothing  but  an  unconsoling  fact.  No  voice 
of  comfort  issues  from  the  tomb.  All  is  still  there,  and 
blank,  and  lifeless,  and  has  been  so  for  ages.  You  see 
nothing  but  bodies  dissolving  and  successively  mingling 
with  the  clods  which  cover  them,  the  grass  growing  over 
the  spot,  and  the  trees  waving  in  sullen  majesty  over  this 
region  of  eternal  silence.  And  what  is  there  more? 


COMMON- PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.       61 

Nothing. — Come,  Faith,  and  people  these  deserts  !  Come, 
and  reanimate  these  regions  of  forge tfulness !  Mothers  ! 
take  again  your  children  to  your  arms,  for  they  are  living. 
Sons  !  your  aged  parents  are  coming  forth  in  the  vigour  of 
regenerated  years.  Friends !  behold,  your  dearest  connex 
ions  are  waiting  to  embrace  you.  The  tombs  are  burst. 
Generations  long  since  in  slumbers  are  awakening.  They 
are  coming  from  the  east  and  the  west,  from  the  north 
and  from  the  south,  to  constitute  the  community  of  the 
blessed. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  loss  of  friends  alone,  that  faith  fur- 
lishes  consolations  which  are  inestimable.  With  a  man  of 
faith  not  an  affliction  is  lost,  not  a  change  is  unimproved. 
He  studies  even  his  own  history  with  pleasure,  and  finds  it 
full  of  instruction.  The  dark  passages  of  his  life  are  illu 
minated  with  hope ;  and  he  sees,  that  although  he  has 
passed  through  many  dreary  defiles,  yet  they  have  opened 
at  last  into  brighter  regions  of  existence  He  recalls,  with 
a  species  of  wondering  gratitude,  periods  of  his  life,  when 
all  its  events  seemed  to  conspire  against  him.  Hemmed 
in  by  straitened  circumstances,  wearied  with  repeated 
blows  of  unexpected  misfortunes,  and  exhausted  with  the 
painful  anticipation  of  more,  he  recollects  years,  when  the 
ordinary  love  of  life  could  not  have  retained  him  in  the 
world.  Many  a  time  he  might  have  wished  to  lay  down 
his  being  in  disgust,  had  not  something  more  than  the 
senses  provide  us  with,  kept  up  the  elasticity  of  his  mind. 
He  yet  lives,  and  has  found  that  light  is  sown  for  the  right 
eous,  and  gladness  for  the  upright  in  heart.  The  man  of 
faith  discovers  some  gracious  purpose  in  every  combination 
of  circumstances.  Wherever  he  finds  himself,  he  knows 
that  he  has  a  destination — he  has,  therefore,  a  duty.  Every 
event  has,  in  his  eye,  a  tendency  and  an  aim.  Nothing  is 
accidental,  nothing  without  purpose,  nothing  unattended 
wi'h  benevolent  consequences.  Every  thing  on  earth  is 
piobationary,  nothing  ultimate.  He  is  poor — perhaps  his 
plans  have  been  defeated — he  finds  it  difficult  to  provide 
for  the  exigencies  of  life — sickness  is  permitted  to  invade 
the  quiet  of  his  household — long  confinement  imprisons 
his  activity,  and  cuts  short  the  exertions  on  which  so  many 
depend — something  apparently  unlucky  mars  his  best  plans 

L          ' 


62  COaiMON-PLACE  JiOOK  OK  PROSE. 

— new  failures  and  embarrassments  among  his  friends  pre 
sent  themselves,  and  throw  additional  obstruction  in  his 
way — the  world  look  on  and  say,  all  these  things  are  against 
him.  Some  wait  coolly  for  the  hour  when  he  shall  sink 
under  the  complicated  embarrassments  of  his  cruel  fortune. 
Others,  of  a  kinder  spirit,  regard  him  with  compassion,  and 
wonder  how  he  can  sustain  such  a  variety  of  wo.  A  few 
there  are,  a  very  few,  I  fear,  who  can  understand  some 
thing  of  the  serenity  of  his  mind,  and  comprehend  some 
thing  of  the  nature  of  his  fortitude.  There  are  those, 
whose  sympathetic  piety  can  read  and  interpret  the  char 
acters  of  resignation  on  his  brow.  There  are  those,  in  fine, 
who  have  felt  the  influence  of  faith. 

In  this  influence  there  is  nothing  mysterious,  nothing 
romantic,  nothing  of  which  the  highest  reason  .may  be 
ashamed.  It  shows  the  Christian  his  God,  in  all  the  mild 
majesty  of  his  parental  character.  It  shows  you  God,  dis 
posing  in  still  and  benevolent  wisdom  the  events  of  every 
individual's  life,  pressing  the  pious  spirit  with  the  weight 
of  calamity  to  increase  the  elasticity  of  the  mind,  produc 
ing  characters  of  unexpected  worth  by  unexpected  mis 
fortune,  invigorating  certain  virtues  by  peculiar  probations, 
thus  breaking  the  fetters  which  bind  us  to  temporal  things, 
and 

"  From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression." 

When  the  sun  of  the  believer's  hopes,  according  to  com 
mon  calculations,  is  set,  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  is  still  visible. 
When   much  of  the   rest  of  the  world  is  in  darkness,  the 
high  ground  of  faith  is  illuminated  with  the  brightness  of 
religious  consolation. 

Come  now,  my  incredulous  friends,  and  follow  me  to  the 
bed  of  the  dying  believer.  Would  you  see  in  what  peace  a 
Christian  can  die  ?  Watch  the  last  gleams  of  thought  which 
stream  from  his  dying  eyes.  Do  you  see  any  thing  like  ap 
prehension  ?  The  world,  it  is  true,  begins  to  shut  in.  The 
shadows  of  evening  collect  around  his  senses.  A  dark  mist 
thickens,  and  rests  upon  the  objects  which  have  hitherto 
engaged  his  observation.  The  countenances  of  his  friends 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  63 

become  more  and  more  indistinct.  The  sweet  expiesAions 
of  love  and  friendship  are  no  longer  intelligible.  His  ear 
wakes  no  more  at  the  well-known  voice  of  his'  children, 
an  the  soothing  accents  of  tender  affection  die  away  un 
heard,  upon  his  decaying  senses.  To  him  the  spectacle 
of  human  life  is  drawing  to  its  close,  and  the  curtain  is 
descending,  which  shuts  out  this  earth,  its  actors,  and  its 
scenes.  He  is  no  longer  interested  in  all  that  is  done  un 
der  the  sun.  0 !  that  I  could  now  open  to  you  the  recesses 
of  his  soul ;  that  I  could  reveal  to  you  the  light,  which 
darts  into  the  chambers  of  his  understanding.  He  ap 
proaches  that  world  which  he  has  so  long  seen  in  faith. 
The  imagination  now  collects  its  diminished  strength,  and 
the  eye  of  faith  opens  wide.  Friends  !  do  not  stand,  thus 
fixed  in  sorrow,  around  this  bed  of  death.  Why  are  you 
so  still  and  silent  ?  Fear  not  to  move — you  cannot  disturb 
the  last  visions  which  enchant  this  holy  spirit.  Your  lam 
entations  break  not  in  upon  the  songs  of  seraphs,  which 
inwrap  his  hearing  in  ecstasy.  Crowd,  if  you  choose, 
around  his  couch — he  heeds  you  not — already  he  sees  the 
spirits  of  the  just  advancing  together  to  receive  a  kindred 
soul.  Press  him  not  with  importunities ;  urge  him  not 
with  alleviations.  Think  you  he  wants  now  these  tones 
of  mortal  voices — these  material,  these  gross  consolations  1 
No !  He  is  going  to  add  another  to  the  myriads  of  the  just, 
that  are  every  moment  crowding  into  the  portals  of  heav 
en  !  He  is  entering  on  a  nobler  life.  He  leaves  you — he 
leaves  you,  weeping  children  of  mortality,  to  grope  ahout 
a  little  longer  among  the  miseries  and  sensualities  of  a 
worldly  life.  Already  he  cries  to  you  from  the  regions  of 
bliss.  Will  you  not  join  him  there  ?  Will  you  not  taste  the 
sublime  joys  of  faith  ?  There  are  your  predecessors  in  vir 
tue  ;  there,  too,  are  places  left  for  your  contemporaries. 
There  are  seats  for  you  in  the  assembly  of  the  just  made 
perfect,  in  the  innumerable  company  of  angels,  where  is 
Jesus,  the  mediator  of  the  new  covenant,  and  God,  th^ 
judge  of  all 


64  COMMON-1'LACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Death  of  General  Washington. — MARSHALL. 

ON  Friday,  the  13th  of  December,  1799,  while  attending 
to  some  improvements  upon  his  estate,  he  was  exposed  to  a 
slight  rain,  by  which  his  neck  and  hair  became  wet.  Un 
apprehensive  of  danger  from  this  circumstance,  he  passed 
the  afternoon  in  his  usual  manner ;  but  in  the  night  he 
was  sei/ed  with  an  inflammatory  affection  of  the  wind 
pipe.  The  disease  commenced  with  a  violent  ague,  ac 
companied  with  some  pain  in  the  upper  and  fore  part  of 
the  throat,  a  sense  of  stricture  in  the  same  part,  a  cough, 
and  a  difficult,  rather  than  a  painful,  deglutition,  which 
were  soon  succeeded  by  a  fever,  and  a  quick  and  laborious 
respiration. 

Believing  bloodletting  to  be  necessary,  he  procured  a 
bleeder,  who  took  from  his  arm  twelve  or  fourteen  ounces 
of  blood ;  but  he  would  not  permit  a  messenger  to  be  de 
spatched  for  his  family  physician  until  the  appearance  of 
day.  About  eleven  in  the  morning,  Dr.  Craik  arrived ; 
and,  perceiving  the  extreme  danger  of  the  case,  requested 
that  two  consulting  physicians  should  be  immediately  sent 
for.  The  utmost  exertions  of  medical  skill  were  applied 
in  vain.  The  powers  of  life  were  manifestly  yielding  to 
the  force  of  the  disorder ;  speaking,  which  was  painful 
from  the  beginning,  became  almost  impracticable  ;  respi 
ration  became  more  and  more  contracted  and  imperfect ; 
until  half  past  eleven  on  Saturday  night,  when,  retaining  the 
full  possession  of  his  intellect,  he  expired  without  a  struggle 

Believing,  at  the  commencement  of  his  complaint,  as  well 
as  through  every  succeeding  stage  of  it,  that  its  conclusion 
would  be  mortal,  he  submitted  to  the  exertions  made  for 
his  recovery  rather  as  a  duty  than  from  any  expectation  of 
their  efficacy.  Some  hours  before  his  death,  after  repeated 
efforts  to  be  understood,  he  succeeded  in  expressing  a  de 
sire  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  die  without  interruption. 
After  it  became  impossible  to  get  any  thing  down  his  throat, 
lie  undressed  himself,  and  went  to  bed,  there  to  die.  To 
his  friend  and  physician,  Dr.  Craik,  who  sat  on  his  bed, 
and  took  his  head  in  his  lap,  he  said  with  difficulty,  "  Doc 
tor,  I  am  dying,  and  have  been  dyirg  for  a  long  time;  but 
I  am  not  afraid  to  die." 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  65 

During  the  short  period  of  his  illness,  he  economized  hia 
time  in  arranging,  with  the  utmost  serenity,  those  few  con 
cerns,  which  required  his  attention,  and  anticipated  his  ap 
proaching  dissolution  with  every  demonstration  of  that  equa 
nimity,  for  which  his  life  was  so  uniformly  and  singularly 
conspicuous. 

The  deep  and  wide -spreading  grief,  occasioned  by  this 
melancholy  event,  assembled  a  great  concourse  of  people, 
for  the  purpose  of  paying  the  last  tribute  of  respect  to  the 
first  of  Americans.  On  Wednesday,  the  18th  of  December, 
atiended  by  military  honours  and  the  ceremonies  of  religion, 
his  body  was  deposited  in  the  family  vault  at  Mount  Vernon 

So  short  was  his  illness,  that,  at  the  seat  of  government, 
the  intelligence  of  his  death  preceded  that  of  his  indispo 
sition.  It  was  first  communicated  by  a  passenger  in  the 
stage  to  an  acquaintance  whom  he  met  in  the  street,  and 
the  report  quickly  reached  the  house  of  representatives, 
which  was  then  in  session.  The  utmost  dismay  and  afflic 
tion  were  displayed  for  a  few  minutes,  after  which  a  mem 
ber  stated  in  his  place  the  melancholy  information  which 
had  been  received.  This  information,  he  said,  was  not  cer 
tain,  but  there  was  too  much  reason  to  believe  it  true. 

"  After  receiving  intelligence,"  he  added,  "  of  a  national 
calamity  so  heavy  and  afflicting,  the  house  of  representa 
tives  can  be  but  ill  fitted  for  public  business."  He  there 
fore  moved  an  adjournment.  Both  houses  adjourned  until 
the  next  day. 

On  the  succeeding  day,  as  soon  as  the  orders  were  read, 
the  same  member  addressed  the  chair,  and  afterwards  of 
fered  the  following  resolutions  :* 

"  Resolved,  that  this  house  will  wait  upon  the  president- 
in  condolence  of  this  mournful  event. 

"  Resolved,  that  the  speaker's  chair  be  shrouded  with 
black,  and  that  the  members  and  officers  of  the  house  wear 
black  during  the  session. 

"  Resolved,  that  a  committee,  in  conjunction  with  or.e 
from  the  senate,  be  appointed  to  consider  on  the  most  suit- 


*  These  resolutions  were  prepared  by  General  Lee,  and  offered  >y 
John  Marshall,  the  future  biographer  of  Washington.    The  last  setii- 
mert  in  them  has  been  often  quoted  and  admired. — £». 
6* 


66  COMMON-PLACE  B3OK  OP  PROSE. 

able  manner  of  paying  honour  to  the  memory  of  the  Man 
first  in  war,  first  in  peace,  ».nd  first  in  the  hearts  of  his 
fellow-citizens  " 


The  Lessons  of  Death. — NORTOX. 

WHEN  such  men  are  taken  from  us,  we  are  made  to  fee  I 
the  instability  of  life,  and  the  insecurity  of  the  tenure  by 
which  we  hold  its  dearest  blessings.  But  this  feeling  will 
be  of  little  value,  if  it  do  not  lead  us  to  look  beyond  this  world, 
and  if  it  be  not  thus  connected  with  a  strong  sense  of  the 
proper  business  of  life, — to  prepare  ourselves  for  happiness 
in  that  world,  where  there  shall  be  no  change  but  from 
glory  to  glory.  It  will  be  in  vain  for  us  to  contemplate 
such  a  character  as  we  have  been  regarding,  if  we  do  not 
feel  that  its  foundation  was  in  that  religion,  which  teaches 
every  one  of  us  to  regard  himself  as  created  by  God,  to 
be  an  image  of  his  own  eternity.  It  will  be  in  vain  for 
us  to  stand  by  the  open  grave  of  departed  worth,  if  no 
earthly  passion  grows  cool,  and  no  holy  purpose  gains 
strength. 

We  are  liable,  in  this  world,  to  continual  delusion ;  to  a 
most  extravagant  over-estimate  of  the  value  of  its  objects. 
With  respect  to  many  of  our  cares  and  pursuits,  the  senti 
ment  expressed  in  the  words  of  David  must  have  borne 
with  all  its  truth  and  force  upon  the  mind  of  every  con 
siderate  man  in  some  moments,  at  least,  of  serious  reflec 
tion  :  Surely  every  one  walketh  in  a  vain  show  ;  surely 
they  are  disquieted  in  vain.  The  events  of  the  next 
month,  or  the  next  year,  often  assume  in  our  eyes  a  most 
disproportionate  importance,  and  almost  exclude  from  our 
view  all  the  other  infinite  variety  of  concerns  and  changes 
which  are  to  follow  in  the  course  of  an  immortal  existence. 
The  whole  happiness  of  our  being  seems  sometimes  to  be 
at  stake  upon  the  success  of  a  plan,  which,  when  we  have 
grown  but  a  little  older,  we  may  regard  with  indifference. 
These  are  subjects  on  which  reason  too  commonly  speaks 
to  us  in  vain.  But  there  is  one  lesson,  which  God  some 
times  gives  us,  that  brings  the  truth  home  to  our  hearts- 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  67 

There  is  an  admonition,  which  addresses  itself  directly  to 
our  feelings,  and  before  which  they  bow  in  humility  and 
tears.  We  can  hardly  watch  the  gradual  decay  of  a  man 
eminent  for  virtue  and  talents,  and  hear  him  uttering,  with 
a  voice  that  will  soon  be  heard  no  more,  the  last  expressions 
of  piety  and  holy  hope,  without  feeling  that  the  delusions  of 
life  are  losing  their  power  over  our  minds.  Its  true  pur 
poses  begin  to  appear  to  us  in  their  proper  distinctness. 
We  are  accompanying  one,  who  is  about  to  take  his  leave 
of  present  objects  ;  to  whom  the  things  of  this  life,  merely, 
arc  no  longer  of  any  interest  or  value.  The  eye,  which 
is  still  turned  to  us  in  kindness,  will,  in  a  few  days,  be  closed 
forever.  The  hand,  by  which  ours  is  still  pressed,  will  be 
motionless.  The  affections,  which  are  still  warm  and  vivid 
— they  will  not  perish  ;  but  we  shall  know  nothing  of  their 
exercise.  We  shall  be  cut  off  from  all  expressions  and 
return  of  sympathy.  He  whom  we  love  is  taking  Icavf  of 
us  for  an  undefined  period  of  absence.  We  are  placed  with 
him  on  the  verge  between  tb/3  world  and  the  eterniiy  in!o 
which  he  is  entering  ;  we  look  before  us.  and  the  objects 
of  the  latter  rise  to  view,  in  all  their  vast  and  solemn  mag 
nificence. 

There  is,  I  well  know,  an  anguish  which  may  preclude 
this  calmness  of  reflection  and  hope.  Our  resolution  may 
be  prostrated  to  the  earth  ;  for  he,  on  whom  we  are  accus 
tomed  to  rely  for  strength  and  support,  has  been  taken 
away.  We  return  to  the  world,  and  there  is  bitterness  in 
all  it  presents  us  ;  for  every  thing  bears  impressed  upon  it 
a  remembrance  of  what  we  have  lost.  It  has  one,  and  but 
one,  miserable  consolation  to  offer  : 

"  That  angu'ish  will  be  wearied  down,  I  know. 

What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ?    From  th'  highest, 

As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day, 

He  learns  to  wean  himself!    For  the  strong  hours 

Conquer  him." 

It  is  a  consolation,  which,  offered  in  this  naked  and  of 
fensive  form,  we  instinctively  reject.  Our  recollections  and 
our  sornnvs,  blended  as  they  are  together,  are  far  too  dear 
to  be  parted  with  upon  such  terms.  But  God  giveth  not  as 
the  world  giveth.  There  is  a  peace  which  comes  from 
him,  and  brings  healing  to  the  heart.  His  religion  would 


68  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSB 

not  have  us  forget,  but  cherish,  our  affections  fc    \\*  ie**1 
for  it  makes  known  to  us,  that  these  affections  s*-  <\U  J>e  in. 
mortal.     It  gradually  takes  away  the  bitterness  »>/  GUV  re 
collections,  and  changes  them  into  glorious  hopes ;  for  > 
teaches  us  to  regard  the  friend,  who  is  with  us  uo  iongcr, 
not  as  one  whom  we  have  lost  on  earth,  but  as  one  \v  horn  w* 
shall  meet,  as  an  angel,  in  heaven. 


Character  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall. — WIH.T. 

THE  chief  justice  of  the  United  States  is  in  his  pei  »on 
tall,  meager,  emaciated ;  his  muscles  relaxed,  and  his 
joints  so  loosely  connected,  as  not  only  to  disqualify  him, 
apparently,  for  any  vigorous  exertions  of  body,  but  to  de 
stroy  every  thing  like  elegance  and  harmony  in  his  air  ant1 
movements.  Indeed,  in  his  whole  appearance  and  demea 
nour, — dress,  attitudes,  and  gesture — sitting,  standing,  or 
walking, — he  is  as  far  removed  from  the  idolized  graces  of 
Lord  Chesterfield,  as  any  other  gentleman  on  earth.  To 
continue  the  portrait :  his  head  and  face  are  small  in  pro 
portion  to  his  height ;  his  complexion  swarthy ;  the  mus 
cles  of  his  face,  being  relaxed,  give  him  the  appearance  of 
a  man  of  fifty  years  of  age,  nor  can  he  be  much  younger. 
His  countenance  has  a  faithful  expression  of  great  good- 
humour  and  hilarity  ;  while  his  black  eyes — that  unerring 
index — possess  an  irradiating  spirit,  which  proclaims  the 
imperial  powers  of  the  mind  that  sits  enthroned  within. 

This  extraordinary  man,  without  the  aid  of  fancy,  with 
out  the  advantages  of  person,  voice,  attitude,  gesture,  or 
any  of  the  ornaments  of  an  orator,  deserves  to  be  consid 
ered  as  one  of  the  most  eloquent  men  in  the  world  ;  if  elo 
quence  may  be  said  to  consist  in  the  power  of  seizing  the 
attention  with  irresistible  force,  and  never  permitting  it  to 
elurle  the  grasp  until  the  hearer  has  received  the  convic 
tion  which  the  speaker  intends. 

As  to  his  person,  it  has  already  been  described.  His 
voice  is  dry  and  hard  ;  his  attitude,  in  his  most  effective  ora 
tions,  was  often  extremely  awkward,  as  it  was  not  unusual 
for  him  to  stand  with  his  left  foot  in  advance  ;  while  all  his 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  69 

gesture  proceeded  from  his  right  arm,  and  consisted  mere 
ly  in  a  vehement,  perpendicular  swing  of  it,  from  about 
the  elevation  of  his  head  to  the  bar,  behind  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  stand. 

As  to  Fancy,  if  she  hold  a  seat  in  his  mind  at  all,  which 
I  very  much  doubt,  his  gigantic  Genius  tramples  with  dis 
dain  on  all  her  flower-decked  plats  and  blooming  parterres. 
How,  then,  you  will  ask,  with  a  look  of  incredulous  curios 
ity, — how  is  it  possible  that  such  a  man  can  hold  the  atten 
tion  of  an  audience  enchained  through  a  speech  of  even  or 
dinary  length  ?  I  will  tell  you. 

He  possesses  one  original,  and  almost  supernatural  facul 
ty, — the  faculty  of  developing  a  subject  by  a  single  glance 
of  his  mind,  and  detecting  at  once  the  very  point  on  which 
every  controversy  depends.  No  matter  what  the  question; 
though  ten  times  more  knotty  than  "  the  gnarled  oak,"  the 
lightning  of  heaven  is  not  more  rapid  nor  more  resistless 
than  his  astonishing  penetration.  Nor  does  the  exercise 
of  it  seem  to  cost  him  an  effort.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  as 
easy  as  vision.  I  am  persuaded  that  his  eyes  do  not  fly 
over  a  landscape,  and  take  in  its  various  objects  with  more 
promptitude  and  facility,  than  his  mind  embraces  and  ana 
lyzes  the  most  complex  subject. 

Possessing  while  at  the  bar  this  intellectual  elevation, 
which  enabled  him  to  look  down  and  comprehend  the  whole 
ground  at  once,  he  determined,  immediately,  and  without  diffi 
culty,  on  which  side  the  question  mightbe  most  advantageous 
ly  appi  cached  and  assailed.  In  a  bad  cause,  his  art  consisted  in 
laying  his  premises  so  remotely  from  the  point  directly  in 
debate,  or  else  in  terms  so  general  and  specious,  that  the 
hearer,  seeing  no  consequence  which  could  be  drawn  from 
them,  was  just  as  willing  to  admit  them  as  not ;  but,  his 
premises  once  admitted,  the  demonstration,  however  dis 
tant,  followed  as  certainly,  as  cogently,  and  as  inevitably,  ag 
any  demonstration  of  Euclid. 

All  his  eloquence  consists  in  the  apparently  deep  self- 
conviction  and  emphatic  earnestness  of  his  manner;. the 
correspondent  simplicity  and  energy  of  his  style  ;  the  close 
and  logical  connexion  of  his  thoughts  ;  and  the  easy  gra 
dations  by  which  he  opens  his  lights  on  the  attentive  minds 
cf  his  hearers. 


70  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  I'ROSE. 

The  audience  are  never  permitted  to  pause  for  a 
moment.  There  is  no  stopping  to  weave  garlands  of 
flowers  to  be  hung  in  festoons  around  a  favourite  argument 
On  the  contrary,  every  sentence  is  progressive ;  every  idea 
sheds  new  light  on  the  subject ;  the  listener  is  kept  per 
petually  in  that  sweetly  pleasurable  vibration,  with  which 
the  mind  of  man  always  receives  new  truths ;  the  dawn 
advances  in  easy  but  unremitting  pace  ;  the  subject  opens 
gradually  on  the  view;  until,  rising  in  high  relief  in  all 
its  native  colours  and  proportions,  the  argument  is  consum 
mated  by  the  conviction  of  the  delighted  hearer. 

His  political  adversaries  allege  that  he  is  a  mere  lawyer  ; 
that  his  mind  has  been  so  long  trammelled  by  judicial  pre 
cedent,  so  long  habituated  to  the  quart  and  tierce  of  foren 
sic  digladiation,  (as  Dr.  Johnson  would  probably  have  call 
ed  it,)  as  to  be  unequal  to  the  discussion  of  a  great  ques- 
aou  of  state.  Mr.  Curran,  in  his  defence  of  Rowan,  seems 
to  have  sanctioned  the  probability  of  such  an  effect  from 
such  a  cause,  when  he  complains  of  his  own  mind  as  hav 
ing  been  narrowed  and  circumscribed  by  a  strict  and  tech 
nical  adherence  to  established  forms ;  but,  in  the  next 
breath,  an  astonishing  burst  of  the  grandest  thought,  and  a 
power  of  comprehension,  to  which  there  seems  to  be  no 
earthly  limit,  proves  that  his  complaint,  as  it  relates  to  him 
self,  is  entirely  without  foundation. 

Indeed,  if  the  objection  to  the  chief  justice  mean  any 
thing  more  than  that  he  has  not  had  the  same  illumination 
and  exercise  in  matters  of  state  as  if  he  had  devoted  his 
life  to  them,  I  am  unwilling  to  admit  it.  The  force  of  a 
cannon  is  the  same,  whether  pointed  at  a  rampart  or  a  man 
of  war,  alth  nigh  practice  may  have  made  the  engineer 
more  expert  in  one  case  than  in  the  other.  So  it  is  clear 
that  practice  may  give  a  man  a  greater  command  over  one 
class  of  subjects  than  another  ;  but  the  inherent  energy 
of  his  mind  remains  the  same  whithersoever  it  may  be  di 
rected.  From  this  impression,  I  have  never  seen  any 
cause  to  wonder  at  what  is  called  a  universal  genius :  it 
proves  only  that  the  man  has  applied  a  powerful  mind 
io  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  and  pays  a  compliment  rather 
to  bis  superior  industry  than  his  superior  intellect.  I  am 
very  certain  that  the  gentleman  of  whom  we  am  speaking 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  THOSE.  71 

possesses  the  acumen  which  might  constitute  him  a  univer 
se  1  genius,  according  to  the  usual  acceptation  of  that  phrase. 
But  if  he  be  the  truant,  which  his  warmest  frienda  repre 
sent  him  to  be,  there  is  very  little  probability  that  he  will 
ever  reach  this  distinction. 


Moral  Sublimity  illustrated. — WAYLAND. 

PHI  LOSOPHERS  have  speculated  much  concerning  a  pro 
cess  of  sensation,  which  has  commonly  been  denominate'l 
the  emotion  of  sublimity.  Aware  that,  like  any  other  sim 
ple  feeling,  it  must  be  incapable  of  definition,  they  have 
seldom  attempted  to  define  it ;  but,  content  with  remarking 
the  occasions  on  which  it  is  excited,  have  told  us  that  it 
arises  in  general  from  the  contemplation  of  whatever  is 
vast  in  nature,  splendid  in  intellect,  or  lofty  in  morals :  or, 
to  express  the  same  idea  somewhat  varied,  in  the  language 
of  a  critic  of  antiquity,  "  That  alone  is  truly  sublime,  of 
which  the  conception  is  vast,  the  effect  irresistible,  and  the 
remembrance  scarcely,  if  ever,  to  be  erased." 

But,  although  philosophers  alone  have  written  about  this 
emotion,  they  are  far  from  being  the  only  men  who  have 
felt  it.  The  untutored  peasant,  when  he  has  seen  the  au 
tumnal  tempest  collecting  between  the  hills,  and,  as  it  ad 
vanced,  enveloping  in  misty  obscurity  village  and  hamlet, 
forest  and  meadow,  has  tasted  the  sublime  in  all  its  reality  ; 
and,  whilst  the  thunder  has  rolled  and  the  lightning  flashed 
around  him,  has  exulted  in  the  view  of  Nature  moving 
forth  in  her  majesty.  The  untaught  sailor-boy,  listlessly 
hearkening  to  the  idle  ripple  of  the  moonlight  wave,  when  on 
a  sudden  he  has  thought  upon  the  unfathomable  abyss  be- 
nsath  him,  and  the  wide  waste  of  waters  around  him,  and 
(Vie  infinite  expanse  above  him,  has  enjoyed  tcr  the  full  the 
emotion  of  sublimity,  whilst  his  inmost  soul  has  trem 
bled  at  the  vastness  of  its  own  conceptions.  But  why 
need  I  multiply  illustrations  from  nature  ?  Who  does  not 
recollect  the  emotion  he  has  felt  while  surveying  aught,  in 
the  material  world,  of  terror  or  of  vastness  1 


72  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

And  this  sensation  is  not  produced  by  grandeur  in  mate 
rial  objects  alone.  It  is  also  excited  on  most  of  those  occa 
sions  in  which  we  see  man  tasking  to  the  uttermost  the  ener 
gies  of  his  intellectual  or  moral  nature.  Through  the  long 
lapse  of  centuries,  who,  without  emotion,  has  read  of  Leoni- 
das  and  his  three  hundred's  throwing  themselves  as  a  bar 
rier  before  the  myriads  of  Xerxes,  and  contending  unto 
death  for  the  liberties  of  Greece  ? 

But  we  need  not  turn  to  classic  story  to  find  all  that  ia 
great  in  human  action  ;  we  find  it  in  our  own  times,  and  in 
the  history  of  our  own  country.  Who  is  there  of  us  that, 
even  in  the  nursery,  has  not  felt  his  spirit  stir  within  him, 
when,  with  child-like  wonder,  he  has  listened  to  the  story  of 
Washington?  And  although  the  terms  of  the  narrative  were 
scarcely  intelligible,  yet  the  young  soul  kindled  at  the 
thought  of  one  man's  working  out  the  delivery  of  a  nation. 
And  as  our  understanding,  strengthened  by  age,  was  at  last 
able  to  grasp  the  detail  of  this  transaction,  we  saw  that  oui 
infantile  conceptions  had  fallen  far  short  of  its  grandeur. 
Oh !  if  an  American  citizen  ever  exults  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  all  that  is  sublime  in  human  enterprise,  it  is  when, 
bringing  to  mind  the  men  who  first  conceived  the  idea  of 
this  nation's  independence,  he  beholds  them  estimating  the 
power  of  her  oppressor,  the  resources  of  her  citizens,  de 
ciding  in  their  collected  might  that  this  nation  should  be  free, 
and,  through  the  long  years;  of  trial  that  ensued,  never 
blenching  from  their  purpose,  but  freely  redeeming  the 
pledge  they  had  given,  to  consecrate  to  it  "  their  lives, 
their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred  honour." 

"  Patriots  have  toiled,  and,  in  their  country's  cause, 
Bled  nobly,  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 
Receive  proud  recompense.     \Ve  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.     The  historic  Muse, 
Proud  ot  her  treasure,  marches  with  it  clown 
To  latest  times  :  and  Sculpture  in  her  turn 
Gives  bond,  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass, 
To  guard  them,  and  immortalize  her  trust." 

It  is  not  in  the  field  of  patriotism  alone  that  deeds  have 
been  achieved,  to  which  history  has  awarded  the  palm  of 
moral  sublimity.  There  have  lived  men,  in  whom  the 
name  of  patriot  has  been  merged  in  that  of  philanthropist; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  73 

who,  looking  with  an  eye  of  compassion  over  the  face  of 
the  earth,  have  felt  for  the  miseries  of  our  race,  and  have 
put  forth  their  calm  might  to  wipe  off  one  blot  from  the 
marred  and  stained  escutcheon  of  human  nature,  to  strike 
off  one  form  of  suffering  from  the  catalogue  of  human  wo. 
Such  a  man  was  Howard.  Surveying  our  world  like  a 
spirit  of  the  blessed,  he  beheld  the  misery  of  the  captive — 
he  heard  the  groaning  of  the  prisoner.  His  determination 
was  fixed.  He  resolved,  single-handed,  to  gauge  and  to 
measure  one  form  of  unpiticd,  unheeded  wretchedness,  and, 
bringing  it  out  to  the  sunshine  of  public  observation,  to 
work  its  utter  extermination.  And  he  well  knew  what  this 
undertaking  would  cost  him.  He  knew  whathe  had  tohazard 
from  the  infection  of  dungeons,  to  endure  from  the  fatigues 
of  inhospitable  travel,  and  to  brook  from  the  insolence  of 
legalized  oppression.  He  knew  that  he  was  devoting  him 
self  to  the  altar  of  philanthropy,  and  he  willingly  devoted 
himself.  He  had  marked  out  his  destiny,  and  he  hasted 
forward  to  its  accomplishment,  with  an  intensity,  "  which 
the  nature  of  the  human  mind  forbade  to  be  more,  and  the 
character  of  the  individual  forbade  to  be  less."  Thus  he 
commenced  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  benevolence.  And 
hence,  the  name  of  Howard  will  be  associated  with  all  that 
is  sublime  in  mercy,  until  the  final  consummation  of  all 
things. 

Such  a  man  is  Clarkson,  who,  looking  abroad,  beheld  the 
miseries  of  Africa,  and,  looking  at  home,  saw  his  country 
stained  with  ner  blood.  We  have  seen  him,  laying  aside 
the  vestments  of  the  priesthood,  consecrate  himself  to  the 
holy  purpose  of  rescuing  a  continent  from  rapine  and  mur 
der,  and  of  erasing  this  one  sin  from  the  book  of  his  na 
tion's  iniquities.  We  have  seen  him  and  his  fellow  phi 
lanthropists,  for  twenty  years,  never  waver  from  their  pur 
pose.  We  have  seen  them  persevere  amidst  neglect  and 
obloquy,  and  contempt,  and  persecution,  until,  the  cry  of  the 
oppressed  having  roused  the  sensibilities  of  the  nation,  the 
"  Island  Empress"  rose  in  her  might,  and  said  to  this 
foul  traffic  in  human  flesh,  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no 
farther. 

7 


74  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE. 


Eloquent  Speech  of  Logan,   Chief  of  ;  ht   Mingocs. — 
JEFFERSON. 

I  MAY  challenge  the  whole  orations  of  Demosthenes  anfi 
Cicero,  and  of  any  more  eminent  orator,  if  Europe  has  fur 
nished  more  eminent,  to  produce  a  single  passage  superior 
to  the  speech  of  Logan,  a  Mingo  chief,  to  Lord  Dunmore, 
when  governor  of  this  state.*  And,  as  a  testimony  of  their 
talents  in  this  line,  I  beg  leave  to  introduce  it,  first  stating 
the  incidents  necessary  for  understanding  it. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1774,  a  robbery  was  commit 
ted  by  some  Indians  on  certain  land  adventurers  on  the 
river  of  Ohio.  The  whites  in  that  quarter,  according  to  their 
custom,  undertook  to  punish  this  outrage  in  a  summary 
way.  Captain  Michael  Cresap  and  acertain  Daniel  Great- 
house,  leading  on  these  parties,  surprised,  at  different  times, 
travelling  and  hunting  parties  of  the  Indians,  having  their 
women  and  children  with  them,  and  murdered  many. 
Among  these  were  unfortunately  the  family  of  Logan,  a 
chief  celebrated  in  peace  and  war,  and  long  distinguished 
as  the  friend  of  the  whites.  This  unworthy  return  provoked 
his  vengeance .  He  accordingly  signalized  himself  in  the  war 
which  ensued.  In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  a  decisive 
battle  was  fought  at  the  mouth  of  the  Great  Kanhaway,  be 
tween  the  collected  forces  of  the  Shawanese,Mingoes,  and 
Delawares,  and  a  detachment  of  the  Virginia  militia.  The 
Indians  were  defeated,  and  sued  for  peace.  Logan,  how 
ever,  disdained  to  be  seen  among  the  suppliants.  But,  lest 
the  sincerity  of  a  treaty  should  be  distrusted,  from  which 
so  distinguished  a  chief  absented  himself,  he  sent,  by  a 
messenger,  the  following  speech  to  be  delivered  to  Lord 
Dunmore. 

"I  appeal  to  any  white  man  to  say,  if  ever  he  entered 
Logan's  cabin  hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  meat ;  if  ever 
he  came  cold  and  naked,  and  he  clothed  him  not.  During 
the  course  of  the  last  long  andbloody  war,  Logan  remained 
idle  in  his  cabin,  an  advocate  for  peace.  Such  was  my 
love  for  the  whites,  that  my  countrymen  pointed  as  they 
passed,  and  said,  '  Logan  is  the  friend  of  white  men.'  I 
had  even  thought  to  have  lived  with  you,  but  for  the  injq 
*  Virginia 


COMMON-PLACE   BOoK   OF    PROSE.  75 

ties  of  one  man.  Colonel  Cresap,  the  last  spring,  in  cold 
blood,  and  unprovoked,  murdered  all  the  relations  of  Lo 
gan,  not  even  sparing  my  women  and  children.  There 
runs  not  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  the  veins  of  any  living 
creature.  This  called  on  me  for  revenge.  I  have  sought  it: 
I  have  killed  many :  I  have  fully  glutted  my  vengeance. 
For  my  country,  I  rejoice  at  the  beams  of  peace  :  but  do 
not  harbour  a  thought  that  mine  is  the  joy  of  fear  :  Logan 
never  felt  fear :  he  will  hot  turn  on  his  heel  to  save  hia 
life.  Who  is  there  to  mourn  for  Logan  ?  Not  one." 


Fox,  Burke,  and  Pitt. — A.  H.  EVERETT. 

IF  the  views  of  the  opposition  in  parliament,  in  regard  to 
some  very  important  subjects,  have  received  an  apparent 
confirmation  from  the  final  result  of  the  measures  that 
were  pursued,  the  party  can  also  boast  the  honour  of  reck- 
oningupon  its  listof  members  some  of  the  most  distinguish 
ed  statesmen  that  ever  appeared  in  England  or  the  world 
Not  to  mention  those  now  livyig,  who  would  do  credit  to 
any  party  or  any  nation,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  cite  the 
illustrious  names  of  Fox  and  Burke;  names  that  are  hardly 
to  be  paralleled  in  the  records  of  eloquence,  philosophy,  and 
patriotism  ;  and  which  will  only  be  more  closely  associated 
in  the  respect  and  veneration  of  future  ages,  on  account  of 
the  personal  schism  which  grew  up  between  them,  and 
which  forms  one  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  their  histo 
ry.  Their  difference  was  rather  in  regard  to  policy  than 
to  principle,  both  being  warm  and  strenuous  friends  of  lib 
erty;  and,  when  they  differed,  they  were  both  partly  right 
and  partly  wrong.  That  Burke  was  judicious  and  wise  in 
discountenancing  the  too  violent  spirit  of  reform,  which 
was  then  spreading  through  the  nation,  and  threatening 
ruin  to  its  institutions,  and  that  Fox,  in  encouraging  it,  was 
rather  influenced  by  a  generous  and  unreflecting  zeal  for 
freedom,  than  by  motives  of  sound  policy,  will  now  hardly  be 
denied;  and  the  time,  perhaps,  is  not  very  distant,  if  it  has 
not  already  arrived,  when  it  will  be  admitted,  with  equal 
unanimity,  that  the  policy  of  making  war  upon  France, 


76  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

whether  for  the  purpose  of  crushing  the  principles  of  liber 
ty,  or,  at  a  subsequent  period,  of  checking  the  develope- 
ment  of  he'r  power,  was,  throughout,  not  only  unjust,  but 
imprudent,  and  eminently  un.brtunate  for  the  ultimate  m- 
terests  of  England;  that  Burke,  by  supporting  this  policy 
with  his  fervid  and  powerful  eloquence,  was  unconscious 
ly  doing  a  serious  injury  to  his  country ;  and  that  the  sys 
tem  of  Fox  and  his  friends  and  successors,  in  this  point,  was 
as  politic  and  prudent  as  it  was  generous  and  humane.  Af 
ter  thirty  years  of  unheard-of  exertion  and  unexampled 
success,  the  war  seems  to  have  ended  by  leav'pg  an 
open  field  to  the  ambition  of  another  state,  infinitely  more 
formidable  and  dangerous  than  France.  It  may  be  re 
marked,  however,  that  this  result  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  foreseen  by  the  opposition  any  more  than  by  the  minis 
try.  It  has  generally  been  the  fault  of  the  British  states 
men,  of  all  parties,  to  regard  France  merely  as  a  rival  stato, 
instead  of  extending  their  views  to  the  whole  Europeuti 
system,  of  which  France  and  England  are  only  members, 
with  interests  almost  wholly  in  unison. 

Fox  and  Burke,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  dwell  a  little 
longer  on  so  pleasing  a  then*  as  the  characters  of  these  il 
lustrious  statesmen,  were  not  less  distinguished  for  amiable 
personal  qualities,  and  intellectual  accomplishments,  than 
for  commanding  eloquence  and  skill  in  political  science.  The 
friends  of  Fox  dwell  with  enthusiasm  and  fond  regret  up 
on  the  cordiality  of  his  manners  and  the  unalloyed  sweet 
ness  of  his  disposition.  It  is  unfortunate  that  the  pure 
lustre  of  these  charming  virtues  was  not  graced  by  a  suffi 
cient  regard  to  the  dictates  of  private  morality.  Burke,  on 
the  contrary  with  an  equally  kind  and  social  spirit,  was  a 
model  of  perfection  in  all  the  relations  of  domestic  life  ;  his 
character  being  at  once  unsullied  by  the  least  stain  of 
excess,  and  exempt  from  any  shade  of  rigorism  or  defect 
of  humour.  While  his  private  virtues  made  the  happiness 
of  his  family  and  friends,  his  conversation  was  the  charm 
and  wonder  of  the  loftiest  minds  and  the  most  enlightened 
circles  of  society.  He  was  the  only  man  whom  Dr.  John 
son,  a  great  master  of  conversation,  admitted  to  be  capable 
of  tasking  his  powers.  The  only  deduction  from  the  uni 
form  excellence  of  Burke  is  said  to  have  been  the  small  at 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  77 

traction  of  his  manner  in  public  speaking,  a  point  in  which 
Fox  was  also  not  particularly  successful,  but  was  reckon 
ed  his  superior.  It  would  be  too  rash  for  an  ordinary  ob 
server  to  undertake  to  give  to  either  of  these  two  mighty 
minds  the  palm  of  original  superiority  It  can  hardly 
be  denied  that  that  of  Burke  was  better  disciplined  and 
more  accomplished ;  and  his  intellectual  reputation,  being 
better  supported  than  that  of  Fox  by  written  memorials, 
will  probably  stand  higher  with  posterity.  Had  Fox  been 
permitted  to  finish  the  historical  work  which  he  had  be 
gun,  he  might,  perhaps,  have  bequeathei.  to  future  ages 
a  literary  monument,  superior  in  dignity  and  lasting  value 
to  any  thing  that  remains  from  the  pen  of  Burke.  Both 
possessed  a  fine  and  cultivated  taste  for  the  beauties  of  art 
and  nature ;  that  of  Fox  seems  to  have  been  even  more 
poetical  than  his  illustrious  rival's ;  Dut  he  has  left  no  writ 
ten  proofs  of  it  equal  to  the  fine  philosophical  Essay  on  the 
Sublime  and  Beautiful.  It  is  but  poor  praise  of  this  ele 
gant  performance,  to  say  that  it  is  infinitely  superior  to  the 
essay  of  Longinus  on  the  sublime,  from  which  the  hint 
seems  to  have  been  taken,  and  which  nothing  but  a  blind 
and  ignorant  admiration  of  antiquity  could  ever  have  exalt 
ed  into  a  work  of  great  merit. 

A  sagacious  critic  has  advanced  the  opinion,  that  the 
merit  of  Burke  was  almost  wholly  literary ;  but  I  confess 
I  see  little  ground  for  this  assertion,  if  literary  excel 
lence  is  here  understood  in  any  other  sense  than  as  an  im 
mediate  result  of  the  highest  intellectual  and  moral  endow 
ments.  Such  compositions  as  the  writings  of  Burke  sup 
pose,  no  doubt,  the  fine  taste,  the  command  of  language, 
and  the  finished  education,  which  are  all  supposed  by  eve 
ry  description  of  literary  success.  But,  in  the  present 
state  of  society,  these -qualities  are  far  from  being  uncom 
mon  ;  and  are  possessed  by  thousands,  who  make  no  pre 
tension  to  the  eminence  of  Burke,  in  the  same  degree  in 
vhich  they  were  by  nim.  Such  a  writer  as  Cumberland, 
for  example,  who  stands  infinitely  below  Burke  on  the 
scale  of  intellect,  may  yet  be  regarded  as  his  equal  or  supe 
rior  in  purely  literary  accomplishments,  taken  in  this  ex 
clusive  sense.  The  style  of  Burke  is  undoubtedly  one  of 
the  most  splendid  forms,  in  which  the  English  language 
7* 


78  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

has  ever  been  exhibited.  It  displays  the  happy  and  diffi 
cult  union  of  all  the  richness  and  magnificence  that  good 
taste  admits,  with  a  perfectly  easy  construction.  In  Burke, 
we  see  the  manly  movement  of  a  well-bred  gentleman ; 
in  Johnson,  an  equally  profound  and  vigorous  thinker,  the 
measured  march  of  a  grenadier.  We  forgive  the  great 
moralist  his  stiff  and  cumbrous  phrases,  in  return  for 
the  rich  stores  of  thought  and  poetry  which  they  conceal ; 
but  we  admire  in  Burke,  as  in  a  fine  antique  statue,  the 
grace  with  which  the  large  flowing  robe  adapts  itself  to 
the  majestic  dignity  of  the  person.  But,  with  all  his  litera 
ry  excellence,  the  peculiar  merits  of  this  great  man  were, 
perhaps,  the  faculty  of  profound  and  philosophical  thought, 
and  the  moral  courage  which  led  him  to  disregard  personal 
inconvenience  in  the  expression  of  his  sentiments.  Deep 
thought  is  the  informing  soul,  that  every  where  sustains 
and  inspires  the  imposing  grandeur  of  his  eloquence.  Even 
in  the  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  the  only  work 
of  pure  literature  which  he  attempted,  that  is,  the  only  one 
which  was  not  an  immediate  expression  of  his  views  on 
public  affairs,  there  is  still  the  same  richness  of  thought, 
the  same  basis  of  "  divine  philosophy,"  to  support  the  har 
monious  superstructure  of  the  language.  And  the  moral 
courage,  which  formed  so  remarkable  a  feature  in  his 
character,  contributed  not  less  essentially  to  his  literary 
success.  It  seems  to  be  a  law  of  nature,  that  the  highest 
degree  of  eloquence  demands  the  umon  of  the  noblest 
qualities  of  character  as  well  as  intellect.  To  think  is  the 
highest  exercise  of  the  mind ;  to  say  what  you  think,  the 
boldest  effort  of  moral  courage ;  and  both  these  things  are 
required  for  a  really  powerful  writer.  Eloquence  without 
thoughts  is  a  mere  parade  of  words;  and  no  man  can  ex 
press  with  spirit  and  vigour  any  thoughts  but  his  own. 
This  was  the  secret  of  the  eloquence  of  Rousseau,  which 
is  not  without  a  certain  analogy  in  its  forms  to  that  of 
Burke.  The  principal  of  the  Jesuits'  college  one  day  in 
quired  of  him  by  what  art  he  had  been  able  to  write  so 
well ;  "  I  said  what  I  thought,"  replied  the  unceremonious 
Genevan ;  conveying,  in  these  few  words,  the  bitterest  sat 
ire  on  the  system  of  the  Jesuits,  and  the  best  explanation 
of  his  own. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE.  79 

If,  by  the  criticism  above  alluded  to,  it  be  meant  that 
Burke,  though  an  eloquent  writer  and  profound  thinker, 
was  not  an  able  practical  statesman,  the  position  may 
be  more  tenable,  at  least  for  the  partisans  of  the  school 
of  Fox,  but  not,  perhaps,  ultimately  more  secure.  To 
form  correct  conclusions  in  forms  of  practice,  in  opposition 
to  the  habitual  current  of  one's  opinions  and  prejudices, 
must  be  considered  as  the  highest  proof  of  practical  abili 
ty  ;  and  this  was  done  by  Burke  in  regard  to  the  French 
revolution.  As  a  member  of  the  opposition,  and  a  uniform 
friend  and  supporter  of  liberal  principles,  he  was  led  by  all 
his  habits  of  thinking,  and  by  all  his  personal  associations, 
to  approve  it;  and  to  feel  the  same  excessive  desire  to 
introduce  its  principles  in  England,  which  prevailed 
among  his  political  friends.  But  he  had  sagacity  enough  to 
see  the  true  interest  of  his  country  through  the  cloud  of 
illusions  and  associations,  and  independence  enough  t: 
proclaim  his  opinions,  with  the  sacrifice  of  all  his  intimate 
connexions.  This  was  at  once  the  height  of  practical  abili 
ty  and  disinterested  patriotism.  If  he  pushed  his  ideas  to 
exaggeration  in  regard  to  foreign  affairs,  it  was  still  the  ex 
aggeration  of  a  system  essentially  correct  in  its  domestic 
operation.  He  was  rather  a  British  than  a  European 
statesman ;  but  the  moment  was  so  critical  at  home,  that 
he  may,  perhaps,  DC  excused  for  not  seeing  quite  clearly 
what  was  right  abroad ;  and  it  was  also  not  unnatural  that 
he  should  carry  to  excess  the  system  to  which  he  had  sac 
rificed  his  prejudices  and  his  friendships.  That  his  systen. 
was  not  correct  in  all  its  parts  may  be  easily  admitted  ;  but 
I  think  that,  in  supporting  it',  under  the  circumstances,  he 
provsd  great  practical  ability ;  and  what  system  was  ever 
adopted,  in  which  it  was  not  possible,  thirty  years  after,  to 
point  out  faults? 

Bj  the  side  of  these  celebrated  patriots  arose  another  not 
less  distinguished,  though  his  name  is  hardly  surrounded,  in 
public  opinion,  with  so  many  amiable  and  lofty  associations  ; 
I  mean  the  son  of  Chatham — "  the  pilot  that  weathered 
the  storm  !"  Prejudice  itself  can  hardly  refuse  to  this 
statesman  the  praise  of  transcendent  endowments,  both  in 
tellectual  and  moral.  He  had  the  natural  gift  of  a  brilliant 
and  easy  elocution,  great  aptitude  for  despatch  of  business. 


80  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

and  a  singular  facility  in  seeing  through,  at  a  glance,  and 
developing  with  perfect  clearness,  the  most  intricate  com 
binations  of  politics  and  finance.  Repossessed,  moreover,  a 
firmness  of  purpose,  and  a  determined  confidence  .'m  hia 
own  system,  which  finally  ensured  its  success,  and  which 
afford,  perhaps,  the  strongest  proofs  he  has  given  c.f  the  ele 
vation  of  his  character.  It  was  no  secondary  statesman, 
who  could  trust  undauntedly  to  himself,  when  left,  as  it 
were,  alone  in  Europe,  like  the  tragical  Medea,  abandoned 
by  all  the  world ;  and,  in  the  confidence  of  his  own  re 
sources,  could  renew  his  efforts  with  redoubled  vigour.  His 
admirers  will  hardly  venture  to  ascribe  to  him  the  enlarged 
philosophy,  or  the  warmth  of  heart,  that  belonged  to  his 
illustrious  colleagues  and  rivals.  The  conduct  of  public 
affairs  was  the  business  of  his  life  ;  and  he  neither  knew 
nor  cared  about  any  other  matters.  He  was  born  and  bred 
to  this ;  and  if  he  was  equal  to  it,  he  was  also  not  above  it. 
Philosophy  and  friendship  were  to  him,  in  the  language  of 
the  law,  surplusage  ;  as  Calvinism  was  to  the  great  Cu- 
jas — JVihil  hoc  ad  edictum  Pratoris.  And  though  politi 
cal  affairs  are  of  a  higher  order,  and  of  more  extensive 
interest,  than  any  others,  yet,  when  the  conduct  of  them  is 
pursued  mechanically,  like  a  mere  professional  employ 
ment,  it  becomes,  like  other  professions,  a  matter  of  routine 
and  drudgery.  Thus,  while  Burke  and  Fox  appear  like 
beings  of  a  different  class,  descending  from  superior  regions 
to  interest  themselves  in  the  welfare  of  mortals,  Pitt  pre 
sents  himself  to  the  mind  as  the  first  of  mere  politicians, 
but  still  as  a  mere  politician  like  the  rest.  His  eloquence 
is  marked  by  the  stamp  of  his  character.  It  pursues  a 
clear  and  rapid  course,  neither  falling  below,  nor  rising 
above,  the  elevation  of  his  habitual  themes.  No  attempt  to 
sound  the  depths  of  thought,  or  soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy,  still 
less  to  touch  the  fine  chords  of  feeling,  but  all  a  +  6,  an  ele 
gant  solution  of  political  problems  very  nearly  in  the  man 
ner  of  algebra.  This  profuse  and  interminable  flow  of  words 
is  not  in  itself  either  a  rare  or  remarkable  endowment.  It 
is  wholly  a  thing  of  habit,  and  is  exercised  by  every  vil 
lage  lawyer  with  various  degrees  of  power  and  grace. 
Lord  Londonderry,  though  he  wants  the  elegant  correct- 
ness  of  language,  as  well  as  the  lofty  talents  of  his  great 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  81 

predecessor,  commands  an  equally  ready  and  copious  elo 
cution.  In  the  estimate  of  Mr.  Pitt's  powers,  I  have  not 
taken  into  account  the  errors  of  his  foreign  policy,  because 
an  erroneous  judgment  is  not  always  a  proof  of  inferior 
talents,  but  often  only  argues  a  false  position.  The  misfor 
tune  of  having  countenanced  and  joined  in  the  crusade 
against  the  French,  and  the  merit  of  having  resisted  the 
spirit  of  revolution  at  home,  belong  alike  to  Pitt  and  to 
Burke.  The  praise  of  a  clearer  and  more  generous  view 
of  foreign  politics  is  due  to  Fox  ;  though  his  plan  is  not  al 
ways  bottomed  on  the  most  enlarged  system  of  European 
relations,  and  although  his  glory  is  somewhat  clouded  by 
his  too  precipitate  zeal  for  political  novelties  at  home. 


Surprise  and  Destruction  of  the  Pequod  Indiana. — 
Miss  SEDGWICK. 

MAGAWISCA  paused  a  few  moments,  sighed  deeply, 
and  then  began  the  recital  of  the  last  acts  in  the  tragedy 
of  her  people,  the  principal  circumstances  of  which  are  de 
tailed  in  the  chronicles  of  the  times,  by  the  witnesses  of  the 
bloody  scenes.  "  You  know,"  she  said,  "  our  fortress-homes 
were  on  the  level  summit  of  a  hill.  Thence  we  could  see, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  stretch,  our  hunting-grounds,  and  our 
gardens,  which  lay  beneath  us  on  the  borders  of  a  stream  that 
glided  around  our  hill,  and  so  near  to  it,  that  in  the  still  nights 
we  could  hear  its  gentle  voice.  Our  fort  and  wigwams  were 
encompassed  with  a  palisade,  formed  of  young  trees,  and 
branches  interwoven  and  sharply  pointed.  No  enemy's  fool 
had  ever  approached  this  nest,  which  the  eagles  of  the  tribe 
had  built  for  their  mates  and  their  young.  Sassacus  and  my 
father  were  both  away  on  that  dreadful  night.  They  had 
called  a  council  of  our  chiefs,  and  old  men ;  our  young 
men  had  been  out  in  their  canoes,  and,  when  thev  -eturned, 
they  had  danced  and  feasted,  and  were  now  in  oeep  sleep. 
My  mother  was  in  her  hut  with  her  children,  not  sleeping, 
for  my  brother  Samoset  had  lingered  behind  his  compan« 
ions,  and  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  water-sport.  The 
warning  spirit,  that  ever  keeps  its  station  at  a  mother's  pil- 


82  COHMON-PLACE   BOOK    OF   PROSE. 

low,  whispered  that  some  evil  was  near  ;  and  my  mother 
bidding  me  lie  still  with  the  little  ones,  went  forth  in  queaf 
of  my  brother. 

"  All  the  servants  of  the  Great  Spirit  spoke  to  my  moth 
er's  ear  and  eye  of  danger  and  death.  The  moon,  as  sLe 
sunk  behind  the  hills,  appeared  a  ball  of  fire :  strange  lights 
darted  through  the  air;  to  my  mother's  eye  they  seemed 
fiery  arrows ;  to  her  ear  the  air  was  filled  with  death- 
sighs. 

"  She  had  passed  thi  palisade,  and  was  descending  the 
hill,  when  she  met  old  Cushmakin.  "  Do  you  know  aught 
of  my  boy?"  she  asked. 

"  Your  boy  is  safe,  and  sleeps  with  his  companions  ;  he 
returned  by  the  Sassafras  knoll;  that  way  can  only  be 
trodden  by  the  strong-limbed  and  light-footed." 

"My  boy  is  safe,"  said  my  mother;  "  then  tell  me,  for 
thou  art  wise,  and  canst  see  quite  through  the  dark  future, 
tell  me,  what  evil  is  coming  to  our  tribe?"  She  then  de 
scribed  the  omens  she  had  seen.  "  I  know  not, "said  Gush- 
makin  ;  "  of  late  darkness  hath  spread  over  my  soul,  and  all 
is  black  there,  as  before  those  eyes,  that  the  arrows  of 
death  hath  pierced  ;  but  tell  me,  Monoco,  what  see  you 
now  in  the  fields  of  heaven?" 

"Oh,  now,"  said  my  mother,  "  I  see  nothing  but  the 
blue  depths  and  the  watching  stars.  The  spirits  of  the  air 
have  ceased  their  moaning,  and  steal  over  my  cheek  like 
an  infant's  breath.  The  water-spirits  are  rising,  and  will 
soon  spread  their  soft  wings  around  the  nest  of  our  tribe." 

"The  boy  sleeps  safely,"  muttered  the  old  man,  "  and  I 
have  listened  to  the  idle  fear  of  a  doting  mother." 

"  I  come  not  of  a  fearful  race,"  said  my  mother. 

"Nay,  that  I  did  not  mean,"  replied  Cushmakin;  "  but 
the  panther  watching  her  young  is  fearful  as  a  doe."  The 
night  was  far  spent,  and  my  mother  bade  him  go  home 
with  her.  for  our  powwows  have  always  a  mat  in  the  wig 
wam  of  their  chief.  "  Nay,"  he  said,  "  the  day  is  near, 
and  I  am  always  abroad  at  the  rising  of  the  sun."  Itseem- 
ed  that  the  first  warm  touch  of  the  sun  opened  the  eye  of 
the  old  man's  soul,  and  he  saw  again  the  flushed  hills,  and 
the  shaded  valleys,  the  sparkling  waters,  the  green  maize, 
and  the  gray  old  rocks  of  our  home.  They  were  justpaso* 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK   OF   PROSE.  83 

ing  the  little  gate  of  the  palisade,  when  the  old  man  s  dog 
sprang  from  him  with  a  fearful  bark.  A  rushing  sound 
was  heard.  "Owanox!  Owanox!  (the English!  the  Eng 
lish!  ")  cried  Cushmakin.  My  mother  joined  her  voice  to 
his,  and  in  an  instant  the  cry  of  alarm  spread  through  the 
wigwams.  The  enemy  were  indeed  upon  us.  They  had 
surrounded  the  palisade,  and  opened  their  fire." 

"  Was  it  so  sudden  ?  Did  they  so  rush  on  sleeping 
women  and  children  ?"  asked  Everell,  who  was  uncon 
sciously  lending  all  his  interest  to  the  party  of  the  nar 
rator. 

"Even  so;  they  were  guided  to  us  by  the  traitor  We* 
quash ;  he  from  whose  bloody  hand  my  mother  had  shield 
ed  the  captive  English  maidens — he  who  had  eaten  from 
my  father's  dish,  and  slept  on  his  mat.  They  were  flank 
ed  by  the  cowardly  Narragansetts,  who  shrunk  from  the 
sight  of  our  tribe — who  were  pale  as  white  men  at  the 
thought  of  Sassacus,and  so  feared  him  that,  when  his  name 
was  spoken,  they  were  like  an  unstrung  bow,  and  they 
said,  '  He  is  all  one  God — no  man  can  kill  him.'  These 
cowardly  allies  waited  for  the  prey  they  dared  not  attack." 

"Then,"  said  Everell,  "as  I  have  heard,  our  people  had 
all  the  honour  of  the  fight?" 

"Honour!  was  it,  Everell? — ye  shall  hear.  Our  war 
riors  rushed  forth  to  meet  the  foe;  they  surrounded  the 
huts  of  their  mothers,  wives,  sisters,  children;  they  fought 
as  if  each  man  had  a  hundred  lives,  and  would  give  each 
and  all  to  redeem  their  homes.  Oh !  the  dreadful  fray, 
even  now,  rings  in  my  ears !  Those  fearful  guns,  that 
we  had  never  heard  before — the  shouts  of  your  people — • 
our  own  battle-yell — the  piteous  cries  of  the  little  children 
— the  groans  of  our  mothers,  and,  oh!  worse — worse  than 
all — the  silence  of  those  that  could  not  speak. — TheEnglish 
fell  back;  they  were  driven  to  the  palisade,  some  beyond 
it  when  their  leader  gave  the  cry  to  fire  our  huts,  and  led 
the  way  to  my  mother's.  Samoset,  the  noble  boy,  defend 
ed  the  entrance  with  a  princelike  courage,  till  they  struck 
him  down ;  prostrate  and  bleeding,  he  again  bent  his  bow, 
and  had  taken  deadly  aim  at  the  English  leader,  when  a 
sabre-blow  severed  his  bow-string.  Then  v/as  taken  from 
our  hearth-stone,  where  the  English  had  been  so  often 


84  COMMON-PLACE  COOK.  OF  PROSE. 

warmed  and  cherished,  the  brand  to  consume  our  dwell 
ings.  They  were  covered  with  mate,  and  burnt  like  dried 
straw.  The  enemy  retreated  without  the  palisade.  In 
vain  did  our  warriors  fight  for  a  path  by  which  we  might 
escape  from  the  consuming  fire  ;  they  were  beaten  back  ; 
the  fierce  element  gained  on  us  ;  the  Narragansetts  press 
ed  on  the  English,  howling  like  evolves  for  their  prey 
Some  of  our  people  threw  themselves  into  the  midst  of  the 
crackling  flames,  and  their  courageous  souls  parted  with 
one  shout  of  triumph ;  others  mounted  the  palisade,  but 
they  were  shot,  and  dropped  like  a  flock  of  birds  smitten  by 
the  hunter's  arrows.  Thus  did  the  strangers  destroy,  in 
our  own  homes,  hundreds  of  our  tribe." 

"  And  how  did  you  escape  in  that  dreadful  hour,  Maga- 
wisca  ? — you  were  not  then  taken  prisoners  ?" 

"  No ;  there  was  a  rock  at  one  extremity  of  our  hut, 
and  beneath  it  a  cavity,  into  which  my  mother  crept,  with 
Oneco,  myself,  and  the  two  little  ones  that  afterwards  per 
ished.  Our  simple  habitations  were  soon  consumed  ;  we 
heard  the  foe  retiring,  and,  when  the  last  sound  had  died 
away,  we  came  forth  to  a  sight  that  made  us  lament  to  be 
among  the  living.  The  sun  was  scarce  an  hour  from  his 
rising,  and  yet  in  this  brief  space  our  homes  had  vanished 
The  bodies  of  our  people  were  strewn  about  the  smoulder 
ing  ruin  ;  and  all  around  the  palisade  lay  the  strong  and 
valiant  warriors — cold — silent — powerless  as  the  unformed 
clay." 

Magawisca  paused  ;  she  was  overcome  with  the  recol 
lection  of  this  scene  of  desolation.  She  looked  upward 
with  an  intent  gaze,  as  if  she  held  communion  with  an  in 
visible  being.  "  Spirit  of  my  mother  !"  burst  from  her 
lips — "  oh  !  that  I  could  follow  thee  to  that  blessed  land, 
where  I  should  no  more  dread  the  war-cry,  nor  the  deith- 
knife."  Everell  dashed  the  gathering  tears  from  his  eyes, 
and  Magawisca  proceeded  in  her  narrative. 

"  While  we  all  stood  silent  and  motionless,  we  heard  foot 
steps  and  cheerful  voices.  They  came  from  my  father  and 
Sassacus,  and  their  band,  returning  from  the  friendly  coun- 
•  cil.  They  approached  on  the  side  of  the  hill  that  was  cov 
ered  with  a  thicket  of  oaks,  and  their  ruined  homes  at  once 
burst  upon  their  view.  Oh !  what  horrid  sounds  then 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK.  Of  PKOSE.  85 

pealed  on  the  air !  shouts  of  wailing,  and  cries  of  ven 
geance.  Every  eye  was  turned  with  suspicion  and  hatred 
on  my  father.  He  had  been  the  friend  of  the  English  ; 
he  had  counselled  peace  and  alliance  with  them  ;  he  had 
protected  their  traders  ;  delivered  the  captives  taken  from 
them,  and  restored  them  to  their  people  :  now  his  wife  and 
children  alone  were  living,  and  they  called  him  traitor.  I 
heard  an  angry  murmur,  and  many  hands  were  lifted  to 
strike  the  death-blow.  He  moved  not — '  Nay,  nay,'  cried 
Sassacus,  beating  them  off.  '  Touch  him  not ;  his  soul  13 
bi  ight  as  the  sun  ;  sooner  shall  you  darken  that,  than  fir.d 
treason  in  his  breast.  If  he  hath  shown  the  dove's  heart 
to  the  English,  when  he  believed  them  friends,  he  will 
show  himself  the  fierce  eagle,  now  he  knows  them  enemies. 
Touch  him  not,  warriors  ;  remember  my  blood  runneth  in 
his  veins.' 

"  From  that  moment  my  father  was  a  changed  man.  He 
neither  spoke  nor  looked  at  his  wife,  or  children ;  but. 
placing  himself  at  the  head  of  one  band  of  the  young  men, 
he  shouted  his  war-cry,  and  then  silently  pursued  the  ene 
my.  Sassacus  went  forth  to  assemble  the  tribe,  and  we 
followed  my  mother  to  one  of  our  villages." 

"  You  did  not  tell  me,  Magawisca,"  said  Everell,  "how 
Samoset  perished ;  was  he  consumed  in  the  flames,  or  shot 
from  the  palisade  ?" 

"  Neither — neithei.  He  was  reserved  to  whet  my  fa 
ther's  revenge  to  a  still  keener  edge.  He  had  forced  a 
passage  through  the  English,  and,  hastily  collecting  a  few 
warriors,  they  pursued  the  enemy,  sprung  upon  them  from 
a  covert,  and  did  so  annoy  them  that  the  English  turned, 
and  gave  them  battle.  All  fled  save  my  brother,  and  him 
they  took  prisoner.  They  told  him  they  would  spare  his 
life  if  he  would  guide  them  to  our  strong  holds  ;  he  refused. 
He  had,  Everell,  lived  but  sixteen  summers  ;  he  loved  the 
light  of  the  sun  even  as  we  love  it ;  his  manly  spirit  was 
tamed  by  wounds  and  weariness  ;  his  limbs  were  like  a 
bending  reed,  and  his  heart  beat  like  a  woman's ;  but  the 
fire  of  his  soul  burnt  clear.  Again  they  pressed  him  with 
offers  of  life  and  reward ;  he  faithfully  refused,  and  with 
one  sabre-stroke  they  severed  his  head  from  his  body." 
R 


86 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


Maga  visca  paused — she  looked  at  Everell,  and  said  vt  iti 
a  bitter  smile — "  You  English  tell  us,  Everell,  that  the  book 
of  your  law  is  better  than  that  written  on  our  hearts,  for,  yo 
say,  it  teaches  mercy,  compassion,  forgiveness — if  ye  had 
such  a  law,  and  believed  it,  would  ye  thus  have  treated  a 
captive  boy  ?" 

Magawisca's  reflecting  mind  suggested  the  most  serious 
obstacle  to  the  progress  of  the  Christian  religion,  in  all 
a^es  and  under  all  circumstances  ;  the  contrariety  between 
it.-;  divine  principles  and  the  conduct  of  its  professors  ;  which, 
instead  of  always  being  a  medium  for  the  light  that  ema 
nates  from  our  holy  law,  is  too  often  the  darkest  cloud  that 
obstructs  the  passage  of  its  rays  to  the  hearts  of  heathen 
men.  Everell  had  been  carefully  instructed  in  the  princi 
ples  of  his  religion,  and  he  felt  Magawisca's  relation  to  be 
an  awkward  comment  on  them,  and  her  inquiry  natural 
but,  though  he  knew  not  what  answer  to  make,  he  was  sure 
there  must  be  a  good  one,  and,  mentally  resolving  to  refer 
the  case  to  his  mother,  he  begged  Magawisca  to  proceed 
with  her  narrative. 

"  The  fragments  of  our  broken  tribe,"  she  said,  "  were 
collected,  and  some  other  small  dependant  tribes  persuaded 
to  join  us.  We  were  obliged  to  flee  from  the  open  grounds, 
and  shelter  ourselves  in  a  dismal  swamp.  The  English  sur 
rounded  us ;  they  sent  in  to  us  a  messenger,  and  offered 
life  and  pardon  to  all  who  had  not  shed  the  blood  of  Eng 
lishmen.  Our  allies  listened,  and  fled  from  us,  as  fright 
ened  birds  fly  from  a  falling  tree.  My  father  looked  upon 
his  warriors ;  they  answered  that  look  with  their  battle- 
shout.  '  Tell  your  people,'  said  my  father  to  the  messen 
ger,  '  that  we  have  shed  and  drank  English  blood,  and  that 
we  will  take  nothing  from  them  but  death.'  The  messen 
ger  departed,  and  again  returned  with  offers  of  pardon,  if 
we  would  come  forth,  and  lay  our  arrows  and  our  toma 
hawks  at  the  feet  of  the  English.  '  What  say  you,  war 
riors  ?'  cried  my  father — '  shall  we  take  pardon  from  those 
who  have  burned  your  wives  and  children,  and  given  your 
homes  to  the  beasts  of  prey  ? — who  have  robbed  you  of  your 
hunting-grounds,  and  driven  your  canoes  from  their  wa 
ters  ?'  A  hundred  arrows  were  pointed  to  the  messenger. 
Enough — you  have  your  answer,'  said  my  father ;  and 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  THOSE.  87 

the  messenger  returned  to  announce  the  fate  we  had 
chosen." 

"  Where  was  Sassacus  ? — had  he  abandoned  his  people .'" 
asked  Everell. 

"  Abandoned  them  !  No — his  life  was  in  theirs ;  but,  ac 
customed  to  attack  and  victory,  he  could  not  bear  to  be 
thus  driven  like  a  fox  to  his  hole.  His  soul  was  sick  with 
in  him,  and  he  was  silent,  and  left  all  to  my  father.  All 
day  we  heard  the  strokes  of  the  English  axes  felling  the 
trees  that  defended  us,  and,  when  night  came,  they  had  ap 
proached  so  nearjjjiat  we  could  see  the  glimmering  of  their 
watch-lights  through  the  branches  of  the  trees.  All  night 
they  were  pouring  in  their  bullets,  alike  on  warriors, 
women,  and  children.  Old  Cushmakin  was  lying  at  my 
mother's  feet,  when  he  received  a  death-wound.  Gasping 
for  breath,  he  called  on  Sassacus  and  my  father — '  Stay  not 
here,'  he  said ;  '  look  not  on  your  wives  and  children,  but 
burst  your  prison  bound  ;  sound  through  the  nations  the 
cry  of  revenge  !  Linked  together,  ye  shall  drive  the  Eng 
lish  into  the  sea.  I  speak  the  word  of  the  Great  Spirit 
• — obey  it !'  While  he  was  yet  speaking,  he  stiffened  in 
death.  '  Obey  him,  warriors,'  cried  my  mother  ;  '  see,' 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  mist  that  was  now  wrapping  itself 
around  the  wood  like  a  thick  curtain — '  see,  our  friends 
have  come  from  the  spirit-land  to  shelter  you.  Nay,  look 
not  on  us — our  hearts  have  been  tender  in  the  wigwam,  but 
we  can  die  before  our  enemies  without  a  groan.  Go  forth 
and  avenge  us.' 

"  '  Have  we  come  to  the  counsel  of  old  men  and  old 
women  !'  said  Sassacus,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit. 

"  '  When  women  put  down  their  womanish  thoughts  and 
counsel  like  men,  they  should  be  obeyed,'  said  my  father 
'  Follow  me,  warriors.' 

"  They  burst  through  the  enclosure.  We  saw  nothing 
more,  but  we  heard  the  shout  from  the  foe,  as  they  issued 
from  the  wood — the  momentary  fierce  encounter  and  the 
cry,  '  They  have  escaped  !'  Then  it  was  that  my  mother, 
who  had  listened  with  breathless  silence,  threw  herself 
down  on  the  mossy  stones,  and,  laying  her  hot  cheek  to 
mine — '  Oh,  my  children — my  children  !'  she  said,  '  would 
that  I  could  die  for  you !  But  fear  not  death — the  blood 


88  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE 

of  a  hundred  chieftains,  that  never  knew  fear,  runneth  in 
your  veins.  Hark,  the  enemy  comes  nearer  and  nearer. 
Now  lift  up  your  heads,  ray  children,  and  show  them  that 
even  the  weak  ones  of  our  tribe  are  strong  in  soul.' 

"  We  rose  from  the  ground — all  about  sat  women  and 
children  in  family  clusters,  awaiting  unmoved  their  fate. 
The  English  had  penetrated  the  forest-screen,  and  were 
already  on  the  little  rising-ground  where  we  had  been  in 
trenched.  Death  was  dealt  freely.  None  resisted — not  a 
movement  was  made — not  a  voice  lifted — not  a  sound  es 
caped,  save  the  wailings  of  the  dying  children. 

"  One  of  your  soldiers  knew  my  mother,  and  a  com 
mand  was  given  that  her  life  and  that  of  her  children 
should  be  spared.  A  guard  was  stationed  round  us. 

"  You  know  that,  after  our  tribe  was  thus  cut  off,  we 
were  taken,  with  a  few  other  captives,  to  Boston.  Some 
were  sent  to  the  Islands  of  the  Sun,  to  bend  their  free 
limbs  to  bondage  like  your  beasts  of  burden.  There  are 
among  your  people  those  who  have  not  put  out  the  light 
of  the  Great  Spirit ;  they  can  remember  a  kindness,  albeit 
done  by  an  Indian ;  and  when  it  was  known  to  your  sa 
chems  that  the  wife  of  Mononotto,  once  the  protector 
and  friend  of  your  people,  was  a  prisoner,  they  treated 
her  with  honour  and  gentleness.  But  her  people  were 
extinguished — her  husband  driven  to  distant  forests — forced 
on  earth  to  the  misery  of  wicked  souls — to  wander  without 
a  home  ;  her  children  were  captives — and  her  heart  was 
hroken." 


Character  of  Fisher  Ames. — KIRKLAND. 

MR.  AMES,  as  a  speaker  and  a  writer,  had  the  power  <j 
enlighten  and  persuade,  to  move,  to  please,  to  charm,  to 
astonish.  He  united  those  decorations,  which  belong  to 
fine  talents,  to  that  penetration  and  judgment,  that  des 
ignate  an  acute  and  solid  mind.  Many  of  his  opinions 
had  the  authority  of  predictions  fulfilled  and  fulfilling.  He 
had  the  ability  of  investigation,  and,  where  it  was  neces 
sary,  did  investigate  with  patient  attention,  going  through 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  89 

a  series  of  observation  and  deduction,  and  tracing  the  links 
which  connect  one  truth  with  another.  When  the  result 
of  his  researches  was  exhibited  in  discourse,  the  steps  of  a 
logical  process  were  in  some  measure  concealed  by  the 
colouring  of  rhetoric.  Minute  calculation  and  dry  details 
were  employments,  however,  the  leas,  adapted  to  his  pe 
culiar  construction  of  mind.  It  was  easy  and  delightful 
for  him  to  illustrate  by  a  picture,  but  painful  and  laborious 
to  prove  by  a  diagram.  It  was  the  prerogative  of  his  mind 
to  discern  by  a  glance,  so  rapid  as  to  seem  intuition,  those 
truths  which  common  capacities  struggle  hard  to  appre 
hend  ;  and  it  was  the  part  of  his  eloquence  to  display,  ex 
pand  and  enforce  them. 

His  imagination  was  a  distinguishing  feature  of  his  mind. 
Prolific  grand,  sportive,  original,  it  gave  him  the  command 
of  nature  and  of  art,  and  enabled  him  to  vary  the  disposi 
tion  and  the  dress  of  his  ideas  without  end.  Now  it  as 
sembled  most  pleasing  images,  adorned  with  all  that  is  soft 
and  beautiful ;  and  now  rose  in  the  storm,  wielding  the  ele 
ments,  and  flashing  in  the  most  awful  splendours.  Very 
few  men  have  produced  more  original  combinations.  He 
presented  resemblances  and  contrasts,  which  none  saw  be 
fore,  but  all  admitted  to  be  just  and  striking.  In  delicate 
and  powerful  wit  he  WE.S  pre-eminent. 

The  exercise  of  these  talents  and  accomplishments  was 
guided  and  exalted  by  a  sublime  morality  and  the  spirit  of 
rational  piety,  was  modelled  by  much  good  taste,  and 
prompted  by  an  ardent  heart. 

He  was  more  adapted  to  the  senate  than  the  bar.  His 
speeches  in  congress,  always  respectable,  were  many  of 
them  excellent,  abounding  in  argument  and  sentiment, 
having  all  the  necessary  information,  embellished  with 
rhetorical  beauties,  and  animated  by  patriotic  fires. 

So  much  of  the  skill  and  address  of  the  orator  do  they 
exhibit,  that,  though  he  had  little  regard  to  the  rules  of  the 
art,  they  arc  perhaps  fair  examples  of  the  leading  precepts 
for  the  several  parts  of  an  oration.  In  debates  on  impor 
tant  questions,  he  generally  waited  before  he  spoke  till  the 
discussion  had  proceeded  at  some  length,  when  he  was 
sure  to  notice  every  argument  that  hud  been  offered.  Ee 
was  sometimes  in  a  minor 'ty,  when  he  well  considered  the 
8* 


90  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

temper  of  a  majority  in  a  republican  assembly,  impatient 
of  contradiction,  refutation,  or  detection,  claiming  to  be 
allowed  sincere  in  their  convictions,  and  disinterested  in 
their  views.  He  was  not  unsuccessful  in  uniting  the  pru 
dence  and  conciliation,  necessary  in  parliamentary  speak 
ing,  with  lawful  freedom  in  debate,  and  an  effectual  use 
of  those  sharp  and  massy  weapons,  which  his  talents  sup 
plied,  and  which  his  frankness  and  zeal  prompted  him  to 
employ. 

He  did  not  systematically  study  the  exterior  graces  of 
speaking,  but  his  attitude  was  erect  and  easy,  his  gestures 
manly  and  forcible,  his  intonations  varied  and  expressive, 
his  articulation  distinct,  and  his  whole  manner  animated 
and  natural.  His  written  compositions,  it  will  be  per 
ceived,  have  that  glow  and  vivacity  which  belong  to  his 
speeches. 

All  the  other  efforts  of  his  mind,  however,  were  proba 
bly  exceeded  by  his  powers  in  conversation.  He  appear 
ed  among  his  friends  with  an  illuminated  face,  and,  with 
peculiar  amenity  and  captivating  kindness,  displayed  all 
the  playful  felicity  of  his  wit,  the  force  of  his  intellect,  and 
the  fertility  of  his  imagination. 

On  the  kind  or  degree  of  excellence  which  criticism 
may  concede  or  deny  to  Mr.  Ames's  productions,  we  do 
not  undertake  with  accurate  discrimination  to  determine. 
He  was  undoubtedly  rather  actuated  by  the  genius  of  ora 
tory,  than  disciplined  by  the  precepts  of  rhetoric  ;  was 
more  intent  on  exciting  attention  and  interest,  and  produc 
ing  effect,  than  securing  the  praise  of  skill  in  the  artifice 
of  composition.  Hence  critics  may  be  dissatisfied,  yet  hear 
ers  charmed.  The  abundance  of  materials,  the  energy  and 
quickness  of  conception,  the  inexhaustible  fertility  of  mind, 
which  he  possessed,  as  they  did  not  require,  so  they  for 
bade,  a  rigid  adherence  to  artificial  guides,  in  the  dispo 
sition  and  employment  of  his  intellectual  stores.  To  a  cer 
tain  extent,  such  a  speaker  and  writer  may  claim  to  be  his 
own  authority. 

Image  crowded  upon  image  in  his  mind,  yet  he  is  not 
chargeable  with  affectation  in  the  use  of  figurative  lan 
guage  ;  his  tropes  are  evidently  prompted  by  imagination, 
and  not  forced  into  service.  Their  novelty  and  variety 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  91 

create  constant  surprise  and  delight.  But  they  are  per 
haps  too  lavishly  employed.  The  fancy  of  his  hearers  is 
sometimes  overplied  with  stimulus,  and  the  importance  of 
the  thought  liable  to  be  concealed  in  the  multitude  and 
beauty  cf  the  metaphors.  His  condensation  of  expression 
may  bt-  thought  to  produce  occasional  abruptness.  He 
aimed  rather  at  the  terseness,  strength,  and  vivacity  of  the 
short  sentence,  than  at  the  dignity  of  the  full  and  flowing 
period.  His  style  is  conspicuous  for  sententious  brevity, 
for  antithesis  and  point.  Single  ideas  appear  with  so  much 
prominence,  that  the  connexion  of  the  several  parts  of  his 
discourse  is  not  always  obvious  to  the  common  mind,  and 
the  aggregate  impression  of  the  composition  is  not  always 
completely  obtained.  In  these  respects,  where  his  peculiar 
excellences  came  near  to  defects,  he  is  rather  to  be  ad 
mired  than  imitated. 

Mr.  Ames,  though  trusting  much  to  his  native  resources, 
did  by  no  means  neglect  to  apply  the  labours  of  others  to 
his  own  use.  His  early  love  of  books  he  retained  and 
cherished  through  the  whole  of  his  life.  He  was  particu 
larly  fond  of  ethical  studies ;  but  he  went  more  deeply 
into  history  than  any  other  branch  of  learning.  Here  he 
sought  the  principles  of  legislation,  the  science  of  politics, 
the  causes  of  the  rise  and  decline  of  nations,  and  the  char 
acters  and  passions  of  men  acting  in  public  affairs.  He  read 
Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Livy,  Tac'tus,  Plutarch,  and  the 
modern  historians  of  Greece  and  Rome.  The  English  his 
tory  he  studied  with  much  care.  Hence  he  possessed  a 
great  fund  of  historical  knowledge,  always  at  command, 
both  for  conversation  and  writing.  He  contemplated  the 
character  of  Cicero  as  an  orator  and  statesman  with  fervent 
admiration. 

He  never  ceased  to  be  a  lover  of  the  poets.  Homer,  in 
Pope,  he  often  perused  ;  and  he  read  Virgil  in  the  original, 
within  two  years  of  his  death,  with  increased  delight.  His 
knowledge  of  the  French  enabled  him  to  read  their  authors, 
though  not  to  speak  their  language.  He  was  accustomed 
to  read  the  Scriptures,  not  only  as  containing  a  system  of 
truth  and  duty,  but  as  displaying,  in  their  poetical  parts, 
all  that  is  sublime,  animated  and  affecting  in  compositiop- 


92  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

His  learning  seldom  appeared  as  such,  but  was  interwoven 
with  his  thoughts,  and  became  his  own. 

In  public  speaking  he  trusted  much  to  excitement,  and 
did  little  more  in  his  closet  than  draw  the  outlines  of  his 
speech,  and  reflect  on  it  till  he  had  received  deeply  the 
impressions  he  intended  to  make  ;  depending  for  the  turns 
and  .figures  of  language,  illustrations  and  modes  of  appeal 
to  the  passions,  on  his  imagination  and  feelings  at  the  time. 
This  excitement  continued  when  the  cause  had  ceased  to 
operate.  After  debate  his  mind  was  agitated,  like  the  ocean 
after  a  storm,  and  his  nerves  were  like  the  shrouds  of  E 
ship,  torn  by  the  tempest.  He  brought  his  mind  much  in 
contact  with  the  minds  of  others,  ever  pleased  to  converse 
on  subjects  of  public  interest,  and  seizing  every  hint  that 
might  be  useful  to  him  in  writing  for  the  instruction  of  his 
fellow-citizens.  He  justly  thought  that  persons  below  him 
in  capacity  might  have  good  ideas,  which  he  might  em 
ploy  in  the  correction  and  improvement  of  his  own.  His 
attention  was  always  awake  to  grasp  the  materials  that  came 
to  him  from  every  source.  A  constant  labour  was  going 
on  in  his  mind.  He  never  sunk  from  an  elevated  tone  of 
thought  and  action,  nor  suffered  his  faculties  to  slumber  in 
indolence.  The  circumstances  of  the  times,  in  which  he 
was  called  to  act,  contributed  to  elicit  his  powers,  and  sup 
ply  fuel  to  his  genius.  The  greatest  interests  were  sub 
jects  of  debate.  When  he  was  in  the  national  legislature, 
the  spirit  of  party  did  not  tie  the  hands  of  the  public  func 
tionaries  ;  and  questions,  on  which  depended  the  peace  or 
war,  the  safety  or  danger,  the  freedom  or  dishonour,  of  the 
country,  might  be  greatly  influenced  by  the  covnsels  and 
efforts  of  a  single  patriot. 

Mr.  Ames's  character  as  a  patriot  rests  on  the  highest 
and  firmest  ground.  He  loved  his  country  with  equal  pu 
rity  and  fervour.  This  affection  was  the  spring  of  all  h.s 
efforts  to  promote  her  welfare.  The  glory  of  being  a  ben 
efactor  to  a  great  people  he  could  not  despise,  but  justly 
valued.  He  was  covetous  of  the  fame  purchased  by  des 
ert  ;  but  he  was  above  ambition ;  and  popularity,  except 
as  an  instrument  of  public  service,  weighed  nothing  in  the 
balance  by  which  he  estimated  good  and  evil.  Had  he 
sought  power  only,  he  would  have  devoted  himself  to  that 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  93 

party,  in  whose  gift  he  foresaw  it  would  be  placed.  His 
first  election,  though  highly  flattering,  was  equally  un 
sought  and  unexpected,  and  his  acceptance  of  it  interrupt 
ed  his  chosen  plan  of  life.  It  obliged  him  to  sacrifice  the 
advantages  of  a  profession,  which  he  needed,  and  placed  in 
uncertainty  his  prospects  of  realizing  the  enjoyments  ol 
domestic  life,  which  he  considered  the  highest  species  of 
happiness.  But  he  found  himself  at  the  disposal  of  others, 
and  did  not  so  much  choose,  as  acquiesce,  in  his  destination 
to  the  national  legislature. 

The  objects  of  religion  presented  themselves  with  a 
strong  interest  to  his  mind.  The  relation  of  the  world  to 
its  Author,  and  of  this  life  to  a  retributory  scene  in  another, 
could  not  be  contemplated  by  him  without  the  greatest  so 
lemnity.  The  religious  sense  was,  in  his  view,  essential 
.n  the  constitution  of  man.  He  placed  a  full  reliance  on 
the  divine  origin  of  Christianity.  If  there  ever  was  a  time 
in  his  life  when  the  light  of  revelation  shone  dimly  upon 
his  understanding,  he  did  not  rashly  close  his  mind  against 
clearer  vision  ;  for  he  was  more  fearful  of  mistakes  to  the 
disadvantage  of  a  system,  which  he  saw  to  be  excellent 
and  benign,  than  of  prepossessions  in  its  favour.  He  felt 
it  his  duty  and  interest  to  inquire,  and  discover  on  the  side 
of  faith,  a  fulness  of  evidence  little  short  of  demonstration. 
Al  about  thirty-five  he  made  a  public  profession  of  his  faith 
in  the  Christian  religion,  and  was  a  regular  attendant  on 
its  services.  In  regard  to  articles  of  belief,  his  conviction 
was  confined  to  those  leading  principles,  about  which 
Christians  have  little  diversity  of  opinion.  Subtile  ques 
tions  of  theology,  from  various  causes  often  agitated,  but 
never  determined,  he  neither  pretended  nor  desired  to  in 
vestigate,  satisfied  that  they  related  to  points  uncertain  OP 
unimportant.  He  loved  to  view  religion  on  the  practical 
side,  as  designed  to  operate,  by  a  few  simple  and  grand 
truthj,  on  the  affections,  actions  and  habits  of  men.  His 
conversation  and  behaviour  evinced  the  sincerity  of  his  re 
ligious  impressions.  No  levity  upon  these  subjects  ever 
escaped  his  lips  ;  but  his  manner  of  recurring  to  them  in 
conversation  indicated  reverence  and  feeling.  The  sublime, 
the  affecting  character  of  Christ,  he  never  mentioned  with 
out  emotion. 


94  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

He  was  gratefully  sensible  of  the  peculiar  felicity  of  hi* 
domestic  life.  In  his  beloved  home  his  sickness  found  all 
the  alleviation,  that  a  judicious  and  unwearied  tenderness 
could  minister  ;  and  his  intervals  of  health  a  succession  of 
every  pleasing  enjoyment  and  heartfelt  satisfaction.  The 
complacency  of  his  looks,  the  sweetness  of  his  tones,  his 
mild  and  often  playful  manner  of  imparting  instruction, 
evinced  his  extreme  delight  in  the  society  of  his  family, 
who  felt  that  they  derived  from  him  their  chief  happiness, 
and  found  in  his  conversation  and  example  a  constant  ex 
citement  to  noble  and  virtuous  conduct.  As  a  husband 
and  father,  he  was  all  that  is  provident,  kind,  exemplary. 
He  was  riveted  in  the  regards  of  those  who  were  in  his 
service.  He  felt  all  the  ties  of  kindred.  The  delicacy, 
the  ardour,  and  constancy,  with  which  he  cherished  his 
friends,  his  readiness  to  the  offices  of  good  neighbourhood, 
and  his  propensity  to  contrive  and  execute  plans  of  public 
improvement,  formed  traits  in  his  character,  each  of  re 
markable  strength.  He  cultivated  friendship  by  an  active 
and  punctual  correspondence,  which  made  the  number  of 
his  letters  very  great,  and  which  are  not  less  excellent 
than  numerous. 

Mr.  Ames  in  person  a  little  exceeded  the  middle  height, 
was  well  proportioned,  and  remarkably  erect.  His  features 
were  regular,  his  aspect  respectable  and  pleasing,  his  eye 
expressive  of  benignity  and  intelligence.  In  his  man 
ners  he  was  easy,  affable,  cordial,  inviting  confidence,  yet 
inspiring  respect.  He  had  that  refined  spirit  of  society, 
which  observes  the  forms  of  real,  but  not  studied  polite 
ness,  and  paid  a  most  delicate  regard  to  the  propriety  of 
conversation  and  behaviour. 


Reflections  on  the  Death  of  Adams  and  Jefferson.— 
SERGEANT. 

TIME  in  its  course  has  produced  a  striking  epoch  in  the 
history  of  our  favoured  country ;  and,  as  if  to  mark  with 
peculiar  emphasis  this  interesting  stage  of  our  national  ex 
istence,  it  comes  to  us  accompanied  with  incidents  calcu* 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK.  OP  PROSE.  95 

lated  to  make  a  powerful  and  lasting  impression.  The- 
dawn  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  independence  beamed 
upon  two  venerable  and  illustrious  citizens,  to  whom,  under 
Providence,  a  nation  acknowledged  itself  greatly  indebted 
for  the  event  which  the  day  was  set  apart  to  commemorate. 
The  one  was  the  author,  the  other  was  "  the  ablest  advocate," 
of  that  solemn  assertion  of  right,  that  heroic  defiance  of  un 
just  power,  which,  in  the  midst  of  difficulty  and  danger, 
proclaimed  the  determination  to  assume  a  separate  and  equal 
station  among  the  powers  of  the  earth,  and  declared  to  the 
world  the  causes  which  impelled  to  this  decision.  Both 
had  stood  by  their  country  with  unabated  ardour  and  un 
wavering  fortitude,  through  every  vicissitude  of  her  for 
tune,  until  the  "  glorious  day"  of  her  final  triumph  crown 
ed  their  labours  and  their  sacrifices  with  complete  success. 
With  equal  solicitude,  and  with  equal  warmth  of  patriotic 
affection,  they  devoted  their  great  faculties,  which  had  been 
employed  in  vindicating  the  rights  of  their  country,  to  con 
struct  for  her,  upon  deep  and  strong  foundations,  the  solid 
edifice  of  social  order,  and  of  civil  and  religious  freedom. 
They  had  both  held  the  highest  public  employment,  and 
were  distinguished  by  the  highest  honours  the  nation  could 
confer.  Arrived  at  an  age  when  nature  seems  to  demand 
repose,  each  had  retired  to  the  spot  from  which  the  public 
exigencies  had  first  called  him, — his  public  labours  ended, 
his  work  accomplished,  his  country  prosperous  and  happy, — 
there  to  indulge  in  the  blessed  retrospect  of  a  well-spent 
life,  and  await  that  period  which  comes  to  all ; — but  not  to 
awa*.  it  in  idleness-  or  indifference.  The  same  spirit  of 
active  benevolence,  which  made  the  meridian  of  their  lives 
resplendent  with  glory,  continued  to  shed  its  lustre  upon 
their  evening  path.  Still  intent  upon  doing  good,  still  de- 
votea  to  the  great  cause  of  human  happiness  and  improve 
ment,  neither  of  these  illustrious  men  relaxed  in  his  exer 
tions.  They  seemed  only  to  concentrate  their  energy,  as 
age  and  increasing  infirmity  contracted  the  circle  of  action, 
bestowing,  without  ostentation,  their  latest  efforts  upon  the 
state  and  neighbourhood  in  which  they  resided.  There, 
with  patriarchal  simplicity,  they  lived,  the  objects  of  a 
nation's  grateful  remembrance  and  affection;  the  living 
records  of  a  nation's  history  ;  the  charm  of  an  age  whicli 


96  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

they  delighted,  adorned  and  instructed  by  their  vivid 
sketches  of  times  that  are  past ;  and,  as  it  were,  the  im- 
bodied  spirit  of  the  revolution  itself,  in  all  its  purity  and 
force,  diffusing  its  wholesome  influence  through  the  gen 
erations  that  have  succeeded,  rebuking  every  sinister  de 
sign,  and  invigorating  every  manly  and  virtuous  resolution. 

The  Jubilee  came, — the  great  national  commemoration 
of  a  nation's  birth, — the  fiftieth  year  of  deliverance  from 
a  foreign  rule,  wrought  out  by  exertions,  and  sufferings,  and 
sacrifices  of  the  patriots  of  the  revolution.  It  found  these 
illustrious  and  venerable  men,  full  of  honours  and  full  of 
years,  animated  with  the  proud  recollection  of  the  times 
in  which  they  had  borne  so  distinguished  a  part,  and  cheer 
ed  by  the  beneficent,  and  expanding  influence  of  their 
patriotic  labours.  The  eyes  of  a  nation  were  turned  to 
wards  them  with  affection  and  reverence.  They  heard  the 
first  song  of  triumph  on  that  memorable  day.  As  the 
voice  of  millions  of  freemen  rose  in  gratitude  and  joy,  they 
both  sunk  gently  to  rest,  and  their  spirits  departed  in  the 
midst  of  the  swelling  chorus  of  national  enthusiasm. 

Death  has  thus  placed  his  seal  upon  the  lives  of  these 
two  eminent  men  with  impressive  solemnity.  A  gracious 
Providence,  whose  favours  have  been  so  often  manifested 
in  mercy  to  our  country,  has  been  pleased  to  allow  them 
an  unusual  length  of  time,  and  an  uncommon  continuance 
of  their  extraordinary  faculties.  They  have  been,  as  it 
were,  united  in  death;  and  they  have  both,  in  a  most  sig 
nal  manner,  been  associated  in  the  great  event  which 
they  so  largely  contributed  to  produce.  Henceforward  the 
names  of  Jefferson  and  Adams  can  never  be  separated  from 
the  Declaration  of  Independence.  Whilst  that  venerated 
instrument  shall  continue  to  exist,  as  long  as  its  sacred 
spirit  shall  dwell  with  the  people  of  this  nation,  or  the  free 
institutions  that  have  grown  out  of  it  be  preserved  and 
respected,  so  longwillour  children,  and  our  children's  chil 
dren,  to  the  latest  generation,  bless  the  names  of  these  our 
Illustrious  benefactors,  and  cherish  their  memory  with  reve 
rential  respect.  The  Jubilee,  at  each  return,  will  bring 
back,  with  renovated  force,  the  lives  and  the  deaths  of  these 
distinguished  men;  and  History,  with  the  simple  pencil  of 


COMMON-PLACE     BOOK  OF  PROSE.  97 

Truth,  sketching  the  wonderful  coincidence,  will,  for  once 
at  least,  set  at  defiance  all  the  powers  of  poetry  and  ro 
mance. 


Indolence. — DEJVNIK. 

4  How  long  wilt  thou  sleep,  O  sluggard  ?  When  wilt  Inou  arise  out 
of  sleep?" 

NOT  until  you  have  had  another  nap,  you  reply ;  not 
tiM  there  has  been  a  little  more  folding  of  the  hands ! 

Various  philosophers  and  naturalists  have  attempted  to 
define  man.  I  never  was  satisfied  with  their  labours  :  ab 
surd  to  pronounce  him  a  two-legged,  unfeathcred  animal, 
when  it  is  obvious  he  is  a  sleepy  one.  In  this  world  there 
is  business  enough  for  every  individual:  a  sparkling  sky 
over  his  head  to  admire,  a  soil  under  his  feet  to  till,  and 
innumerable  objects,  useful  and  pleasant,  to  choose.  But 
such  in  general  is  the  provoking  indolence  of  our  species, 
that  the  lives  of  many,  if  impartially  journalized,  might 
be  truly  said  to  have  consisted  of  a  series  of  slumbers. 
Some  men  are  infested  with  day  dreams,  as  well  as  by 
visions  of  the  night:  they  travel  a  certain  insipid  round, 
like  the  blind  horse  of  the  mill,  and,  as  Bolingbroke  ob 
serves,  perhaps  beget  others  to  do  the  like  after  them.  They 
may  sometimes  open  their  eyes  a  little,  but  they  are  soon 
dimmed  by  some  lazy  fog ;  they  may  sometimes  stretch  a 
limb,  but  its  efforts  are  soon  palsied  by  procrastination. 
Yawning,  amid  tobacco  fumes,  they  seem  to  have  no  hopes, 
except  that  their  bed  will  soon  be  made,  and  no  fears,  ex 
cept  that  their  slumbers  will  be  broken  by  business  clam 
ouring  at  the  door. 

How  tender  and  affectionate  is  the  reproachful  question 
cf  Solomon,  in  the  text,  "  When  wilt  thou  arise  out  of 
B!(  ep  ?"  The  Jewish  prince,  whom  we  know  to  be  an  ac 
tive  one,  from  the  temple  which  he  erected  and  the  books 
which  he  composed,  saw,  when  he  cast  h's  eyes  around 
the  city,  half  his  subjects  asleep.  Though  jn  many  a  wise 
proverb  he  had  warned  them  of  the  baneful  effects  of  m- 
9 


98  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

dolence,  they  were  deaf  to  his  charming  voice,  and  blind 
to  his  noble  example.  The  men  servants  and  the  maid 
servants,  whom  he  had  hired,  nodded  over  their  domestic 
duties  in  the  royal  kitchen,  and  when,  in  the  vineyards  he 
had  planted,  he  looked  for  grapes,  lo,  they  brough  forth 
wild  grapes,  for  the  vintager  was  drowsy. 

At' the  present  time,  few  Solomons  exist  to  preach  against 
pillows,  and  never  was  there  more  occasion  for  a  sermon. 
Our  country  being  at  peace,  not  a  drum  is  heard  to  rouse 
the  slothful.  But,  though  we  are  exempted  from  the  tu 
mults  and  vicissitudes  of  war,  we  should  remember  that 
there  are  many  posts  of  duty,  if  not  of  danger,  and  at  these 
we  should  vigilantly  stand.  If  we  will  stretch  the  hand 
of  exertion,  means  to  acquire  competent  wealth,  and  honest 
fame,  abound,  and  when  such  ends  are  in  view,  how  shameful 
to  close  our  eyes  !  He  who  surveys  the  paths  of  active  life, 
will  find  them  so  numerous  and  long,  that  he  will  feel  the 
necessity  of  early  rising,  and  late  taking  rest,  to  accomplish 
so  much  travel.  He  who  pants  for  the  shade  of  speculation, 
will  find  that  literature  cannot  flourish  in  the  howcrs  of  in 
dolence  and  monkish  gloom.  Much  midnight  oil  must  be 
consumed,  and  innumerable  pages  examined,  by  him  whose 
object  is  to  be  really  wise.  Few  hours  has  that  man  to 
sleep,  and  not  one  to  loiter,  who  has  many  coffers  of  wealth 
to  fill,  or  many  cells  in  his  memory  to  store. 

Among  the  various  men,  whom  I  see  in  the  course  of  my 
pilgrimage  through  this  world,  I  cannot  frequently  find 
those  who  are  broad  awake.  Sloth,  a  powerful  magician, 
mutters  a  witching  spell,  and  deluded  mortals  tamely  suffer 
this  drowsy  being  to  bind  a  fillet  over  their  eyes.  All 
their  activity  is  employed  in  turning  themselves  like  the 
door  on  a  rusty  hinge,  and  all  the  noise  they  make  in  the 
world  is  a  snore.  When  I  see  one,  designed  by  nature  for 
noble  purposes,  indolently  declining  the  privilege,  and,  heed 
less,  like  Esau,  bartering  the  birthright,  for  what  is  of  less 
worth  than  his  red  pottage  of  lentils, — for  liberty  to  sit  still 
and  lie  quietly, — I  think  I  see,  not  a  man,  but  an  oyster 
The  drone  in  society,  like  that  fish  on  our  shores,  might  as 
well  be  sunken  in  the  mud,  and  enclosed  in  a  shell,  a* 
stretched  on  a  couch,  or  seated  in  a  chimney-corner 


ROMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  99 

The  season  is  now  approaching  fast,  when  some  of  the 
most  plausible  excuses  for  a  little  more  sleep  must  fail.  En 
ervated  by  indulgence,  the  slothful  are  of  all  men  most  im« 
patient  of  cold,  and  they  deem  it  never  more  intense  than 
in  the  morning.  But  the  last  bitter  month  has  rolled 
away,  and  now,  could  I  persuade  to  the  experiment,  the 
sluggard  may  discover  that  he  may  toss  off  the  bed-quilt, 
and  try  the  air  of  early  day,  without  being  congealed ! 
He  may  be  assured  that  sleep  is  a  very  stupid  employment, 
and  differs  very  little  from  death,  except  in  duration.  Ho 
may  receive  it  implicitly,  upon  the  faith  both  of  the  physi 
cian  and  the  preacher,  that  morning  is  friendly  to  the  health 
and  the  heart ;  and  if  the  idler  is  so  manacled  by  the  chains 
of  habit,  that  he  can,  at  first,  do  no  more,  he  will  do  wise 
ly  and  well  to  inhale  pure  air,  to  watch  the  rising  sun,  and 
mark  the  magnificence  of  nature. 


Escape  of  Harvey  Birch  and  Captain  Wharton. — 
COOPER. 

THE  road  which  it  was  necessary  for  the  pedler  and  the 
English  captain  to  travel,  in  order  to  reach  the  shelter  of 
the  hills,  lay,  for  half  a  mile,  in  full  view  from  the  door  of 
the  building,  that  had  so  recently  been  the  prison  of  the 
latter  ;  running  for  the  whole  distance  over  the  rich  plain, 
that  spreads  to  the  very  foot  of  the  mountains,  which  here 
rise  in  a  nearly  perpendicular  ascent  from  their  bases ;  it  then 
turned  short  to  the  right,  and  was  obliged  to  follow  the 
windings  of  nature,  as  it  won  its  way  into  the  bosom  of  the 
Highlands. 

To  preserve  the  supposed  difference  in  their  stations, 
Harvey  rode  a  short  distance  ahead  of  his  companion,  and 
maintained  the  sober,  dignified  pace,  that  was  suited  to  his 
assumed  character.  On  their  right,  the  regiment  of  foot, 
that  we  have  already  mentioned,  lay  in  tents  ;  and  the  sen 
tinels,  who  guarded  their  encampment,  were  to  be  seen 
moving,  with  measured  tread,  under  the  skirts  of  the  lull* 
themselves  The  first  impulse  of  Henry  was,  certainly, 
to  urge  the  beast  he  rode  tf  his  greatest  speed  at  once,  and. 


100  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

by  a  coup-de-main,  not  only  to  accomplish  his  escape,  bu 
relieve  himself  from  the  torturing  suspense  of  his  situation 
But  the  forward  movement  that  the  youth  made  for  thi« 
purpose  was  instantly  checked  by  the  pedler. 

"  Hold  up!"  he  cried,  dexterously  reining  his  own  horse 
across  the  path  of  the  other;  "  would  you  ruin  us  both  ? 
Fall  into  the  place  of  a  black  following  his  master.  Did 
you  not  see  their  blooded  chargers,  all  saddled  and  bridled, 
standing  in  the  sun  before  the  house  ?  How  'ong  do  you 
think  that  miserable  Dutch  horse  you  are  on  would  hold 
his  speed,  if  pursued  by  the  Virginians  ?  Every  foot  that 
we  can  gain  without  giving  the  alarm,  counts  us  a  day 
in  our  lives.  Ride  steadily  after  me,  and  on  no  account 
look  back.  They  are  as  subtle  as  foxes,  ay,  and  as  rave 
nous  for  blood  as  wolves." 

Henry  reluctantly  restrained  his  impatience,  and  follow 
ed  the  direction  of  the  pedler.  His  imagination,  however, 
continually  alarmed  him  with  the  fancied  sounds  of  pursuit ; 
though  Birch,  who  occasionally  looked  back  under  the  pre 
tence  of  addressing  his  companion,  assured  him  that  all 
continued  quiet  and  peaceful. 

"  But,"  said  Henry,  "  it  will  not  be  possible  for  Caesar 
to  remain  long  undiscovered :  had  we  not  better  put  our 
horses  to  the  gallop  ?  and,  by  the  time  they  can  reflect  on 
the  cause  of  our  flight,  we  can  reach  the  corner  of  the 
woods." 

"  Ah !  you  little  know  them,  Captain  Wharton,"  re 
turned  the  pedler ;  "  there  is  a  sergeant  at  this  moment  look 
ing  after  us,  as  if  he  thought  all  was  not  right ;  the  keen- 
eyed  fellow  watches  me  like  a  tiger  laying  in  wait  for  his 
leap ;  when  I  stood  on  the  horse  block,  he  half  suspected 
something  was  wrong;  nay,  check  your  beast;  we  must 
let  the  animals  walk  a  little,  for  he  is  laying  his  hand  on 
the  pommel  of  his  saddle  ;  if  he  mounts  now,  we  are 
gone.  The  foot  soldiers  could  reach  us  with  their  mus 
kets." 

"  What  does  he  do  ?"  asked  Henry,  reining  his  horse  ic 
a  walk,  but,  at  the  same  time,  pressing  his  heels  into  the 
animal's  sides,  to  be  in  readiness  for  a  spring. 

"  He  turns  from  his  charger,  and  looks  the  other  way. 
Now  trot  on  gently ;  not  so  fast,  not  so  fast ;  observe  the 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP   PROSE.  101 

sentinel  in  the  field  a  little  ahead  of  us ;  he  eyes  us 
keenly." 

"Never  mind  the  footman,"  said  Henry  impatiently; 
"  he  can  do  nothing  but  shoot  us  ;  whereas  these  dragoons 
may  make  me  a  captive  again.  Surely,  Harvey,  there  are 
horsemen  moving  down  the  road  behind  us.  Do  you  see 
nothing  particular  ?" 

"  Humph  !"  ejaculated  the  oedler  ;  "  there  is  something 
particular,  indeed,  to  be  seen  behind  the  thicket  on  your  left ; 
turn  your  head  a  little,  and  you  may  see  and  profit  by  it  too." 

Henry  eagerly  seized  his  permisson  to  look  aside,  and 
his  blood  curdled  to  the  heart  as  he  observed  they  were 
passing  a  gallows,  that  had  unquestionably  been  erected 
for  his  own  execution.  He  turned  his  face  from  the  sight 
in  undisguised  horror. 

"  There  is  a  warning  to  be  prudent  in  that  bit  of  wood," 
said  the  pedler,  in  that  sententious  manner  that  he  often 
adopted. 

"  It  is  a  terrific  sight  indeed !"  cried  Henry,  for  a  mo 
ment  veiling  his  face  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  drive  a  vision 
from  before  him. 

The  pedler  moved  his  body  partly  around,  and  spoke  with 
energetic  but  gloomy  bitterness — "  and  yet,  Captain  Whar- 
ton,  you  see  it  when  the  setting  sun  shines  full  upon  you ;  the 
air  you  breathe  is  clear,  and  fresh  from  the  hills  before  you. 
Every  step  that  you  take  leaves  that  hated  gallows  behind ; 
and  every  dark  hollow,  and  every  shapeless  rock  in  the 
mountains,  offers  you  a  hiding-place  from  the  vengeance 
of  your  enemies.  But  I  have  seen  the  gibbet  raised,  when 
no  place  of  refuge  offered.  Twice  have  I  been  buried  in 
dungeons,  where,  fettered  and  in  chains,  I  have  passed  nights 
in  torture,  looking  forward  to  the  morning's  dawn  that  was 
to  light  me  to  a  death  of  infamy.  The  sweat  has  started 
from  limbs  that  seemed  already  drained  of  their  moisture,  and 
if  I  ventured  to  the  hole,  that  admitted  air  through  grates  of 
j-on,  to  look  out  upon  the  smiles  of  nature,  which  God  has 
bestowed  for  the  meanest  of  his  creatures,  the  gibbet  has 
glared  before  my  eyes,  like  an  evil  conscience,  harrowing 
the  soul  of  a  dying  man.  Four  times  have  I  been  in  their 
power,  besides  this  last ;  but — twice — twice  did  I  think 
that  my  hour  had  come.  It  is  hard  to  die  at  the  best, 
9* 


102  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

Captain  Wharton ;  but  to  spend  your  last  moments 
and  unpilied,  to  know  that  none  near  you  so  much  as  think 
of  the  fate  that  is  to  you  the  closing  of  all  that  is  earthly 
to  think  that  in  a  few  hours  you  are  to  be  led  from  th« 
gloom — which,  as  you  dwell  on  what  follows,  becomes  dear 
to  you — to  the  face  of  day,  and  there  to  meet  all  eyej 
upon  you,  as  if  you  were  a  wild  beast ;  and  to  lose  sight  of 
every  thing  amidst  the  jeers  and  scoffs  of  your  fellow  crea« 
tures  ; — that,  Captain  Wharton,  that  indeed  is  to  die." 

Henry  listened  in  amazement,  as  his  companion  uttere( 
this  speech  with  a  vehemence  altogether  new  to  him  , 
both  seemed  to  have  forgotten  their  danger  and  their  dis 
guises,  as  he  cried — 

"  What!  were  you  ever  so  near  death  as  that?" 

"  Have  I  not  been  the  hunted  beast  of  these  hills  for 
three  years  past  ?"  resumed  Harvey ;  "  and  once  they  even 
led  me  to  the  foot  of  the  gallows  itself,  and  I  escaped  only 
by  an  alarm  from  the  royal  troops.  Had  they  been  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  later,  I  must  have  died.  There  was  I  placed, 
in  the  midst  of  unfeeling  men,  and  gaping  women  and 
children,  as  a  monster  to  be  cursed.  When  I  would  pray 
to  God,  my  ears  were  insulted  with  the  history  of  my  crimes ; 
and  when,  in  all  that  multitude,  I  looked  around  for  a  sin 
gle  face  that  showed  me  any  pity,  I  could  find  none — no, 
not  even  one — all  cursed  me  as  a  wretch  who  would  sell 
his  country  for  gold.  The  sun  was  brighter  to  my  eyes 
than  common — but  then  it  was  the  last  time  I  should  see 
it.  The  fields  were  gay  and  pleasant,  and  every  thing  seem 
ed  as  if  this  world  was  a  kind  of  heaven.  Oh  !  how  sweet 
life  was  to  me  at  that  moment !  'Twas  a  dreadful  hour, 
Captain  Wharton,  and  such  as  you  have  never  known.  You 
have  friends  to  feel  for  you  ;  but  I  had  none  but  a  father 
to  mourn  my  loss  when  he  might  hear  of  it;  there  was  no 
pity,  no  consolation  near  to  soothe  my  anguish.  Every 
thing  seemed  to  have  deserted  me, — I  even  thought  that 
He  had  forgotten  that  I  lived." 

ei  What !  did  you  feel  that  God  had  forsaken  you,  Har 
vey  ?"  cried  'he  youth,  with  strong  sympathy 

"  God  never  forsakes  his  servants,"  returned  Birch,  with 
everence,  and  exhibiting  naturally  a  devotion  that  hitherto 
he  had  only  assumed. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  103 

"  And  who  did  you  mean  by  He  ?" 

The  pedler  raised  himself  in  his  saddle  to  the  stiff  ana 
upright  posture  that  was  suited  to  the  outward  appearance. 
The  look  of  fire,  that,  for  a  short  time,  glowed  upon  his 
countenance,  disappeared  in  the  solemn  lines  of  unbend 
ing  self-abasement,  and,  speaking  as  if  addressing  a  negro, 
he  replied — 

"  In  heaven,  there  is  no  distinction  of  colour,  my  broth 
er  ;  therefore  you  have  a  precious  charge  within  you,  that 
you  must  hereafter  render  an  account  of," — dropping  his 
voice ;  "  this  is  the  last  sentinel  near  the  road ;  look  not 
back,  as  you  value  your  life." 

Henry  remembered  his  situation,  and  instantly  assumed 
the  humble  demeanour  of  his  adopted  character.  The  un 
accountable  energy  of  the  pedler's  manner  was  soon  for 
gotten  in  the  sense  of  his  own  immediate  danger ;  and  with 
the  recollection  of  his  critical  situation  returned  all  the 
uneasiness  that  he  had  momentarily  forgotten. 

"  What  see  you,  Harvey  ?"  he  cried,  observing  the  ped 
ler  to  gaze  towards  the  building  they  had  left,  with  omi 
nous  interest ;  "  what  see  you  at  the  house  ?" 

"  That  which  bodes  no  good  to  us,"  returned  the  pre 
tended  priest.  "  Throw  aside  the  mask  and  wig — you 
will  need  all  your  senses  without  much  delay — throw 
them  in  the  road :  there  are  none  before  us  that  I  dread,  but 
there  are  those  behind  us,  who  will  give  us  a  fearful 
race." 

"  Nay,  then,"  cried  the  captain,  casting  the  implements 
of  his  disguise  into  the  highway,  "  let  us  improve  our  time 
to  the  utmost ;  we  want  a  full  quarter  to  the  turn ;  why 
not  push  for  it  at  once  ?" 

"  Be  cool — they  are  in  alarm,  but  they  will  not  mount 
without  an  officer,  unless  they  see  us  fly — now  he  comes— 
he  moves  to  the  stables — trot  briskly — a  dozen  are  in  their 
saddles,  but  the  officer  stops  to  tighten  his  girths — they  hope 
to  steal  a  march  upon  us — he  is  mounted — now  ride,  Cap 
tain  Wharton,  for  your  life,  and  keep  at  my  heels.  If  you 
quit  me  you  will  be  lost." 

A  second  request  was  unnecessary.  The  instant  that 
Harvey  put  his  horse  to  his  speed,  Captain  Wharton  was  at 
his  heels,  urging  the  -niserablc  animal  that  he  rode  to  the 


104  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

utmost.  Birch  had  selected  the  beast  on  which  he  rode, 
and,  although  vastly  inferior  to  the  high-fed  and  blooded 
chargers  of  the  dragoons,  still  it  was  much  superior  to  the 
little  pony  that  had  been  thought  good  enough  to  carry  Caesar 
Thompson  on  an  errand.  A  very  few  jumps  convinced  the 
captain  that  his  companion  was  fast  leaving  him,  and  a  fear 
ful  glance  that  he  threw  behind  informed  the  fugitive  that 
his  enemies  were  as  speedily  approaching.  With  that 
abandonment  that  makes  misery  doubly  grievous,  when  it 
is  to  be  supported  alone,  Henry  called  aloud  to  the  pedler 
not  to  desert  him.  Harvey  instantly  drew  up,  and  suffer 
ed  his  companion  to  run  along-side  of  his  own  horse.  The 
cocked  hat  and  wig  of  the  pedler  fell  from  his  head  the 
moment  that  his  steed  began  to  move  briskly,  and  this  de- 
velopement  of  their  disguise,  as  it  might  be  termed,  was 
witnessed  by  the  dragoons,  who  announced  their  observa 
tion  by  a  boisterous  shout,  that  seemed  to  be  uttered  in  the 
very  ears  of  the  fugitives — so  loud  was  the  cry,  and  so 
short  the  distance  between  them. 

"  Had  we  not  better  leave  our  horses,"  said  Henry, "  and 
make  for  the  hills  across  the  fields  on  our  left  ? — the  fence 
will  stop  our  pursuers." 

"That  way  lies  the  gallows,"  returned  the  pedler — 
•''  these  fellows  go  three  feet  to  our  two,  and  would  mind 
them  fences  no  more  than  we  do  these  ruts  ;  but  it  is  a  short 
quarter  to  the  turn,  and  there  are  two  roads  behind  the 
wood.  They  may  stand  to  choose  until  they  can  take 
the  track,  and  we  shall  gain  a  little  upon  them  there." 

"  But  this  miserable  horse  is  blown  already,"  cried  Hen 
ry,  urging  his  beast  with  the  end  of  his  bridle,  at  the  same 
time  that  Harvey  aided  his  efforts  by  applying  the  lash  of 
a  heavy  riding  whip  that  he  carried ;  "  he  will  never  stand 
it  for  half  a  mile  further." 

"  A  quarter  will  do — a  quarter  will  do,"  said  the  pedler; 
"  a  single  quarter  will  save  us,  if  you  follow  my  direc 
tions." 

Somewhat  cheered  by  the  cool  and  confident  manner  of 
his  companion,  Henry  continued  silently  urging  his  horse 
forward.  A  few  moments  brought  them  to  the  desired 
turn,  and,  as  they  doubled  round  a  point  of  low  under-brush, 
the  fugitives  caught  a  glimpse  of  their  pursuers  scattered 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  105 

•long  the  highway.  Mason  and  the  sergeant,  being  better 
mounted  than  the  rest  of  the  party,  were  much  nearer  to 
their  heels  than  even  the  pedler  thought  could  be  possible. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hills,  and  for  some  distance  up  the 
dark  valley  that  wound  among  the  mountains,  a  thick  un 
derwood  of  saplings  had  been  suffered  to  shoot  up,  when 
the  heavier  growth  was  felled  for  the  sake  of  fuel.  At 
the  sight  of  this  cover,  Henry  again  urged  the  pedler  to 
dismount,  and  to  plunge  into  the  woods ;  but  his  request 
was  promptly  refused.  The  two  roads  before  mentioned 
met  at  a  very  sharp  angle,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  turn, 
and  both  were  circuitous,  so  that  but  little  of  either  could 
be  seen  at  a  time.  The  pedler  took  the  one  which  led  to 
the  left,  but  held  it  only  a  moment,  for,  on  reaching  a  par 
tial  opening  in  the  thicket,  he  darted  across  the  right  hand 
path,  and  led  the  way  up  a  steep  ascent,  which  lay  direct 
ly  before  them.  This  manoeuvre  saved  them.  On  reaching 
the  fork,  the  dragoons  followed  the  track,  and  passed  the 
spot  where  the  fugitives  had  crossed  to  the  other  road,  be 
fore  they  missed  the  marks  of  the  footsteps.  Their  loud 
cries  were  heard  by  Henry  and  the  pedler,  as  their  weari 
ed  and  breathless  animals  toiled  up  the  hill,  ordering  their 
comrades  in  the  rear  to  ride  in  the  right  direction.  The 
captain  again  proposed  to  leave  their  horses,  and  dash  into 
tha  thicket. 

"  Not  yet — not  yet,"  said  Birch  in  a  low  voice  ;  the  road 
falls  from  the  top  of  this  hill  as  steep  as  it  rises — first  let 
us  gain  the  top."  While  speaking  they  reached  the  desir 
ed  summit,  and  both  threw  themselves  from  their  horses. 
Henry  plunged  into  the  thick  underwood,  which  covered 
the  side  of  the  mountain  for  some  distance  above  them.  Har 
vey  stopped  to  give  each  of  their  beasts  a  few  severe  blows 
of  his  whip,  that  drove  them  headlong  down  the  path  on 
the  other  side  of  the  eminence,  and  then  followed  his  ex 
ample. 

The  pedle.r  entered  the  thicket  with  a  little  caution, 
and  avoided,  as  much  as  possible,  rustling  or  breaking  the 
branches  in  his  way.  There  was  but  time  only  to  shelter 
his  person  from  view,  when  a  dragoon  led  up  the  ascent, 
and,  on  reaching  tho  height,  he  cried  aloud — 


106  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

"  I  saw  one  of  their  horses  turning  the  hill  this  mio 
ute." 

"  Drive  on — spur  forward,  my  lads,"  shouted  Mason 
"  give  the  Englishman  quarter,  but  cut  down  the  pedlcr, 
and  make  an  end  of  him." 

Henry  felt  his  companion  gripe  his  arm  hard,  as  he  lis 
tened  in  a  great  tremour  to  this  cry,  which  was  followed  by 
the  passage  of  a  dozen  horsemen,  with  a  vigour  and  speed 
that  showed  too  plainly  how  little  security  their  over-tired 
steeds  could  have  afforded  them. 

"  Now,"  said  the  pedler,  rising  from  his  cover  to  recon 
noitre,  and  standing  for  a  moment  in  suspense,  "  all  that  we 
gain  is  clear  gain  ;  for,  as  we  go  up,  they  go  down.  Let  us 
be  stirring." 

"  But  will  they  not  follow  us,  and  surround  this  moun 
tain  ?"  said  Henry,  rising,  and  imitating  the  laboured  but 
rapid  progress  of  his  companion  ;  "  remember  they  have 
foot  as  well  as  horse,  and  at  any  rate  we  shall  starve  in  the 
hills." 

"  Fear  nothing,  Captain  Wharton,"  returned  the  pedler 
with  confidence  ;  "  this  is  not  the  mountain  that  I  would 
be  on,  but  necessity  has  made  me  a  dexterous  pilot  among 
these  hills.  I  will  lead  you  where  no  man  will  dare  to  fol 
low.  See,  the  sun  is  already  setting  behind  the  tops  of  the 
western  mountains,  and  it  will  be  two  hours  to  the  rising 
of  the  moon.  Who,  think  you,  will  follow  us  far,  on 
a  November  night,  among  these  rocks  and  precipices  ?" 

"  But  listen !"  exclaimed  Henry ;  "  the  dragoons  are 
shouting  to  each  other — they  miss  us  already." 

"  Come  to  the  point  of  this  rock,  and  you  may  see  them," 
said  Harvey,  composedly  setting  himself  down  to  rest.  "  Nay, 
they  can  see  us — notice,  they  are  pointing  up  with  their 
fingers.  There  !  one  has  fired  his  pistol,  but  the  distance 
is  too  great  for  even  a  musket  to  carry  upwards." 

"  They  will  pursue  us,"  cried  the  impatient  Henry ; 
"  let  us  be  moving."  • 

"  They  will  not  think  of  such  a  thing,"  returned  the 
pedler,  picking  the  chickerberries  that  grew  on  the  thin 
soil  where  he  sat,  and  very  deliberately  chewing  them, 
leaves  and  all,  to  refresl  his  mouth.  "  What  progresi 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  107 

could  they  make  here,  in  their  boots  and  spurs,  with  their  long 
swords,  or  even  pistols  ?  No,  no — they  may  go  back  and 
turn  out  tht  foot  •  but  the  horse  pass  through  these  defiles, 
when  they  can  keep  the  saddle,  with  fear  and  trembling. 
Come,  follow  me,  Captain  Wharton  ;  we  have  a  troublesome 
march  before  us,  but  I  will  bring  you  where  none  will 
ihink  of  venturing  this  night." 

So  saying,  they  both  arose,  and  were  soon  hid  from  view 
amongst  the  rocks  and  caverns  of  the  mountain. 


Scenery  in  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains. — 
DWIGHT. 

THE  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  is  a  phrase  appro 
priated  to  a  very  narrow  defile,  extending  two  miles  in  length 
between  two  huge  cliffs  apparently  rent  asunder  by  some 
vast  convulsion  of  nature.  This  convulsion  was,  in  my 
own  view,  that  of  the  deluge.  There  are  here,  and 
throughout  New  England,  no  eminent  proofs  of  volcanic 
violence,  nor  any  strong  exhibitions  of  the  power  of  earth 
quakes.  Nor  has  history  recorded  any  earthquake  or  vol 
cano  in  other  countries,  of  sufficient  efficacy  to  produce  the 
phenomena  of  this  place.  The  objects  rent  asunder  are 
too  great,  the  ruin  is  too  vast  and  too  complete,  to  have 
been  accomplished  by  these  agents.  The  change  appears  to 
have  been  effected  when  the  surface  of  the  earth  exten 
sively  subsided;  when  countries  and  continents  assumed  a 
new  face ;  and  a  general  commotion  of  the  elements  pro 
duced  a  disruption  of  some  mountains,  and  merged  others 
beneath  the  common  level  of  desolation.  Nothing  less 
than  this  will  account  for  the  sundering  of  a  long  range  of 
great  rocks,  or  rather  of  vast  mountains ;  or  for  the  exist 
ing  evidences  of  the  immense  force,  by  which  the  rup 
ture  was  effected. 

The  entrance  of  the  chasm  is  formed  by  two  rocks  stand 
ing  perpendicularly  at  the  distance  of  twenty-two  feet 
from  each  other ;  one  about  twenty  feet  in  height,  the  other 
about  twelve.  Half  of  the  space  is  occupied  by  the  brook 
mentioned  as  the  head  stream  of  the  Saco  ;  the  other  half 


108  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

by  the  road.  The  stream  is  lost  and  invisible  beneath  a 
mass  of  fragments,  partly  blown  out  of  the  road,  and  part 
ly  thrown  down  by  some  great  convulsion. 

When  we  entered  the  Notch,  we  were  struck  with  tho 
wild  and  solemn  appearance  of  every  thing  before  us.  The 
scale,  on  which  all  the  objects  in  view  were  formed,  was 
the  scale  of  grandeur  only.  The  rocks,  rude  and  ragged 
in  a  manner  rarely  paralleled,  were  fashioned  and  piled  by 
a  hand  operating  only  in  the  boldest  and  most  irregular  man 
ner.  As  we  advanced,  these  appearances  increased  rapidly. 
Huge  masses  of  granite,  of  every  abrupt  form,  and  hoary 
with  a  moss,  which  seemed  the  product  of  ages,  recalling 
to  the  mind  the  saxum  vetustum  of  Virgil,  speedily  rose 
to  a  mountainous  height.  Before  us  the  view  widened 
fast  to  the  south-east.  Behind  us,  it  closed  almost  instanta 
neously,  and  presented  nothing  to  the  eye  but  an  impassa 
ble  barrier  of  mountains. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance  of  the  chasm,  we 
saw,  in  full  view,  the  most  beautiful  cascade,  perhaps,  in 
the  world.  It  issued  from  a  mountain  on  the  right,  about 
eight  hundred  feet  above  the  subjacent  valley,  and  at  the 
distance  from  us  of  about  two  miles.  The  stream  ran  over 
a  series  of  rocks  almost  perpendicular,  with  a  course  so 
little  broken  as  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  a  uniform 
current;  and  yet  so  far  disturbed  as  to  be  perfectly  white. 
The  sun  shown  with  the  clearest  splendour,  from  a  station 
in  the  heavens  the  most  advantageous  to  our  prospect ; 
and  the  cascade  glittered  down  the  vast  steep,  like  a  stream 
of  burnished  silver. 

At  the  distance  of  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  en 
trance,  we  passed  a  brook,  known  in  this  region  by  the 
name  of  the  flume;  from  the  strong  resemblance  to  that 
object  exhibited  by  the  channel,  which  it  has  worn  for  a 
considerable  length  in  a  bed  of  rocks  ;  the  sides  being  per 
pendicular  to  the  bottom.  This  elegant  piece  of  water  we  de 
termined  to  examine  farther;  and, alighting  from  our  horses, 
walked  up  the  acclivity  perhaps  a  furlong.  The  stream  fell 
from  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  forty  or  two  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  over  three  precipices  ;  the  second  receding  a  small 
distance  from  the  front  of  the  first,  and  the  third  from  that 
of  the  second.  Down  the  first  and  second  it  fell  in  a  sin- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  109 

gte  current;  and  down  the  third  in  three,  which  united 
their  streams  at  the  bottom  in  a  fine  basin,  formed  by  the 
hand  of  nature  in  the  rocks  immediately  beneath  us.  It  is 
impossible  for  a  brook  of  this  size  to  be  modelled  into  more 
diversified  or  more  delightful  forms  ;  or  for  a  cascade  to  de 
scend  over  precipices  more  happily  fitted  to  finish  its  beau 
ty.  The  cliffs,  together  with  a  level  at  their  foot,  furnish 
ed  a  considerable  opening,  surrounded  by  the  forest.  The 
sunbeams,  penetrating  through  the  trees,  painted  here  a 
great  variety  of  fine  images  of  light,  and  edged  an  equally 
numerous  and  diversified  collection  of  shadows  ;  both  dan 
cing  on  the  waters,  and  alternately  silvering  and  obscuring 
their  course.  Purer  water  was  never  seen.  Exclusively 
of  its  murmurs,  the  world  around  us  was  solemn  and  silent. 
Every  thing  assumed  the  character  of  enchantment;  and, had 
I  been  educated  in  the  Grecian  mythology,  I  should  scarce 
ly  have  been  surprised  to  find  an  assemblage  of  Dryads, 
Naiads  and  Oreades,  sporting  o.i  the  little  plain  below  our 
feet.  The  purity  of  this  water  was  discernible,  not  only  by 
its  limpid  appearance,  and  its  taste,  but  from  several  other 
circumstances.  Its  course  is  wholly  over  hard  granite  ;  and 
the  rocks  and  the  stones  in  its  bed  and  at  its  side,  instead  of 
being  covered  with  adventitious  substances,  were  washed 
perfectly  clean  ;  and,  by  their  neat  appearance,  added  not  a 
little  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery. 

From  this  spot  the  mountains  speedily  began  to  open 
with  increased  majesty  ;  and,  in  several  instances,  rose  to 
a  perpendicular  height  little  less  than  a  mile.  The  bosom 
of  both  ranges  was  overspread,  in  all  the  inferior  regions, 
by  a  mixture  of  evergreens  with  trees,  whose  leaves  are 
deciduous.  The  annual  foliage  had  been  already  changed 
by  the  frost.  Of  the  effects  of  this  change  it  is,  perhaps, 
impossible  for  an  inhabitant  of  Great  Britain,  as  I  have 
been  assured  by  several  foreigners,  to  form  an  adequate 
conception,  without  visiting  an  American  forest.  When  I 
was  a  youth,  I  remarked  that  Thomson  had  entirely  omit 
ted  in  his  Seasons  this  fine  part  of  autumnal  imagery. 
Upon  inquiring  of  an  English  gentleman  the  probable  cause 
of  the  omission,  he  informed  me  that  no  such  scenery 
existed  in  Great  Britain.  In  this  country,  it  is  often  among 
the  most  splendi,  Beauties  of  nature  \11  the  leaves  01 
10 


J10  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

trees,  which  are  not  evergreens,  are, by  the  first  severe  frost, 
changed  from  their  verdure  towards  the  perfection  of  that 
colour  which  they  are  capable  of  ultimately  assuming, 
through  yellow,  orange  and  red,  to  a  pretty  deep  brown. 
As  the  frost  affects  different  trees,  and  different  leaves  of  the 
same  tree,  in  very  different  degrees,  a  vast  multitude  of 
tinctures  are  commonly  found  on  those  of  a  single  tree, 
and  always  on  those  of  a  grove  or  forest.  These  colours 
also,  in  all  their  varieties,  are  generally  full ;  and,  in  many 
instances,  are  among  the  most  exquisite,  which  are  found 
in  the  regions  of  nature.  Different  sorts  of  trees  are  sus 
ceptible  of  different  degrees  of  this  beauty.  Among  them 
the  maple  is  pre-eminently  distinguished  by  the  prodigious 
varieties,  the  finished  beauty,  and  the  intense  lustre  of  its 
hues ;  varying  through  all  the  dyes  between  a  rich  green 
and  the  most  perfect  crimson,  or,  more  definitely,  the  red 
of  the  prismatic  image. 

There  is,  however,  a  sensible  difference  in  the  beauty  of 
this  appearance  of  nature  in  different  parts  of  the  country, 
even  when  the  forest  trees  are  the  same.  I  have  seen  no 
tract  where  its  splendour  was  so  highly  finished,  as  in  the 
region  which  surrounds  Lancaster  for  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles.  The  colours  are  more  varied  and  more  intense  ; 
and  the  numerous  evergreens  furnish,  in  their  deep  hues, 
the  best  groundwork  of  the  picture. 

I  have  remarked,  that  the  annual  foliage  on  the  semoun- 
tains  hail  been  already  changed  by  the  frost.  Of  course,  the 
darkness  of  the  evergreens  was  finely  illumined  by  the 
brilliant  yellow  of  the  birch,  the  beech  and  the  cherry, 
and  the  more  brilliant  orange  and  crimson  of  the  maple. 
The  effect  of  this  universal  diffusion  of  gay  and  splendid 
light  was,  to  render  the  preponderating  deep  green  more 
solemn.  The  mind,  encircled  by  this  scenery,  irresistibly 
remembered  that  the  light  was  the  light  of  decay,  autum 
nal  and  melancholy  The  dark  was  the  gloom  of  evening, 
approximating  to  night.  Over  the  whole,  the  azure  of  the 
sky  cast  a  deep,  mi«tv  blue  ;  blending,  towards  the  summit, 
every  other  hue,  ai  d  nredominating  over  all. 

As  the  eye  ascended  these  steeps,  the  light  decayed,  and 
gradually  censed.  On  the  inferior  summits  rose  crowns  of 
conical  firs  and  spruces.  On  the  superior  eminences,  the 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  Ill 

the**-,  growing  less  and  less,  yielded  to  the  chilling  atmos- 
pnere,  and  marked  the  limit  of  forest  vegetation.  Above, 
ne  surface  was  covered  with  a  mass  of  shrubs,  terminating, 
at  a  still  higher  elevation,  in  a  shroud  of  dark-coloured 
moss. 

As  we  passed  onward  through  this  singular  valley,  occa 
sional  torrents,  formed  by  the  rains  and  dissolving  snows  at 
the  close  of  winter,  had  left  behind  them,  in  many  places, 
perpetual  monuments  of  their  progress,  in  perpendicular, 
narrow  and  irregular  paths  of  immense  length,  where  they 
had  washed  the  precipices  naked  and  white,  from  the  sum 
mit  of  the  mountain  to  the  base.  Wide  and  deep  chasms 
also  met  the  eye,  both  on  the  summits  and  the  sides;  and 
strongly  impressed  the  imagination  with  the  thought,  that 
a  hand  of  immeasurable  power  had  rent  asunder  the  solid 
rocks,  and  tumbled  them  into  the  subjacent  valley.  Over 
ail,  hoary  cliffs,  rising  with  proud  supremacy,  frowned  aw- 
lully  on  the  world  below,  and  finished  the  landscape. 

By  our  side,  the  Saco  was  alternately  visible  and  lost, 
and  increased,  almost  at  every  step,  by  the  junction  of 
tributary  streams.  Its  course  was  a  perpetual  cascade; 
and  with  its  sprightly  murmurs  furnished  the  only  contrast 
to  the  scenery  around  us. 


Exalted  Character  of  Poetry. — CHANGING. 

BY  those  who  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  poetry  as  light 
reading,  Milton's  eminence  in  this  sphere  may  be  consider 
ed  only  as  giving  him  a  high  rank  among  the  contributors 
to  public  amusement.  Not  so  thought  Milton.  Of  all 
God's  gifts  of  intellect,  he  esteemed  poetical  intellect  the 
uiost  transcendent.  He  esteemed  it  in  himself  as  a  kind  of 
Inspiration,  and  wrote  his  great  works  with  the  conscious 
dignity  of  a  prophet.  We  agree  with  Milton  in  his  esti- 
t-Jate  of  poetry.  It  seems  to  us  the  divinest  of  all  arts;  for 
it  is  the  breathing  or  expression  of  that  principle  or  senti 
ment,  which  is  deepest  and  sublimest  in  human  nature  ;  we 
mean,  of  that  thirst  or  aspiration,  to  which  no  mind  is  whol 
ly  a  stranger  for  sqmething  purer  and  lovelier,  something 


112  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

more  powerful,  lofty  and  thrilling,  than  ordinary  and  rea 
life  affords. — No  doctrine  is  more  common  among  Chris* 
tians  than  that  of  man's  immorta'1'  ;  but  it  is  not  so  gener 
ally  understood,  that  the  germs  or  principle'  if  his  whole 
future  being  are  now  wrapped  up  in  his  sou',  as  the  rudi 
ments  of  the  future  plant  in  the  seed.  As  a  necessary  re 
sult  of  this  constitution,  the  soul,  possessed  and  moved  by 
these  mighty  though  infant  energies,  is  perpetually  stretch 
ing  beyond  what  is  present  and  visible,  struggling  against 
the  bounds  of  its  earthly  prison-house,  and  seeking  relief 
and  joy  in  imaginings  of  unseen  and  ideal  being.  This  view 
of  our  nature,  which  has  never  been  fully  developed,  and 
which  goes  farther  towards  explaining  the  contradictions 
of  human  life  than  all  others,  carries  us  to  the  very  founda 
tion  and  sources  of  poetry.  He,  who  cannot  interpret  by 
his  own  consciousness  what  we  now  have  said,  wants  the 
true  key  to  works  of  Genius.  He  has  not  penetrated  those 
secret  recesses  of  the  soul,  where  Poetry  is  born  and  nour 
ished,  and  inhales  immortal  vigour,  and  wings  herself  for 
her  heavenward  flight. — In  an  intellectual  nature,  framed 
for  progress  and  for  higher  modes  of  being,  there  must  be 
creative  energies,  power  of  original  and  ever-growing 
thought;  and  poetry  is  the  form  in  which  these  energies 
are  chiefly  manifested.  It  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of 
this  art,  that  it  "  makes  all  things  new"  for  the  gratifica 
tion  of  a  divine  instinct.  It  indeed  finds  its  elements  in 
what  it  actually  sees  and  experiences  in  the  worlds  of  mat 
ter  and  mind ;  but  it  combines  and  blends  these  into  new 
forms,  and  according  to  new  affinities;  breaks  down,  if 
we  may  so  say,  the  distinctions  and  bounds  of  nature ;  im 
parts  to  material  objects  life,  and  sentiment,  and  emotion, 
and  invests  the  mind  with  the  powers  and  splendours  of  the 
outward  creation;  describes  the  surrounding  universe  in 
the  colours  which  the  (jassions  throw  over  it,  and  depicts 
the  mind  in  tho?e  Diodes  of  repose  or  agitation,  of  tender 
ness  or  sub!irt.e  emotion,  which  manifest  its  thirst  for  a 
more  powerful  and  joyful  existence.  To  a  man  of  a.  liter?! 
and  prosaic  character,  the  mind  may  seem  lawless  in  ft? 
workings ;  but  it  observes  higher  laws  than  it  transgresses, — 
(he  laws  of  the  immortal  intellect;  it  is  trying  and  developing 
its  best  faculties;  and,  in  the  objects  which  it  describes. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  113 

or  the  emotions  which  it  awakens,  anticipates  those  states 
of  progressive  power,  splendour,  beauty  and  happiness,  for 
which  it  was  created. 

We  accordingly  believe  that  poetry,  far  from  injuring 
society,  is  one  of  the  great  instruments  of  its  refinement 
and  exaltation.  It  lifts  the  mind  above  ordinary  life,  gives 
it  a  respite  from  depressing  cares,  and  awakens  the  con 
sciousness  of  its  affinity  with  what  is  pure  and  noble.  In 
its  legitimate  and  highest  efforts,  it  has  the  same  ten 
dency  and  aim  with  Christianity ;  that  is,  to  spiritualize 
our  nature.  True,  poetry  has  been  made  the  instrument 
of  vice,  the  pander  of  bad  passions  ;  but  when  genius  thus 
stoops,  it  dims  its  fires,  and  parts  with  much  of  its  power  ; 
and  even  when  Poetry  is  enslaved  to  licentiousness  and 
misanthropy,  she  cannot  wholly  forget  her  true  vocation. 
Strains  of  pure  feeling,  touches  of  tenderness,  images  of 
innocent  happiness,  sympathies  with  what  is  good  in  our 
nature,  bursts  of  scorn  or  indignation  at  the  hollowness  of 
the  world,  passages  true  to  our  moral  nature,  often  escape 
in  an  immoral  work,  and  show  us  how  hard  it  is  for  a  gifted 
spirit  to  divorce  itself  wholly  from  what  is  good. — Poetry 
has  a  natural  alliance  with  our  best  affections.  It  delights 
in  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  outward  nature  and  of  the 
soul.  It  indeed  portrays  vviih  terrible  energy  the  ex 
cesses  of  the  passions,  but  they  are  passions  which  show  a 
mighty  nature,  which  are  full  of  power,  which  command 
awe,  and  excite  a  deep  though  shuddering  sympathy.  Its 
great  tendency  and  purpose  is,  to  carry  the  mind  beyond 
and  above  the  beaten,  dusty,  weary  walks  of  ordinary 
life  ;  to  lift  it  into  a  purer  element,  and  to  breathe  into  it 
more  profound  and  generous  emotion.  It  reveals  to  us  the 
loveliness  of  nature,  brings  back  the  freshness  of  youthful 
feeling,  revives  the  relish  of  simple  pleasures,  keeps  un- 
quenched  the  enthusiasm  which  warmed  the  spring-time 
of  our  being,  refines  youthful  love,  strengthens  our  inter 
est  in  human  nature  by  vivid  delineations  of  its  tendered 
tnd  loftiest  feelings,  s-preads  our  sympathies  over  all  classes 
of  society,  knits  us  by  new  ties  with  universal  being,  and, 
t\  rough  the  brightness  of  its  prophetic  visions,  bslps  faith 
to  lay  hold  on  the  future  life. 
10* 


114  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

We  are  aware  that  it  is  objected  to  poetry,  that  it  givet 
wrong  views,  and  excites  false  expectations  of  life,  peoples 
the  mind  with  shadows  and  illusions,  and  builds  up  imagina 
tion  on  the  ruins  of  wisdom.  That  there  is  a  wisdom,  against 
which  poetry  wars, — the  wisdom  of  the  senses,  which 
makes  physical  comfort  and  gratification  the  supreme  good, 
and  wealth  the  chief  interest  of  life, — we  do  notlfeny ;  nor 
do  we  deem  it  the  least  service  which  poetry  renders  to 
mankind,  that  it  redeems  them  from  the  thraldom  of  this 
earthborn  prudence.  Bu;,  passing  over  this  topic,  we 
would  observe,  that  the  complaint  against  poetry  as  abound 
ing  in  illusion  and  deception  is,  in  the  main,  groundless. 
In  many  poems  there  is  more  of  truth  than  in  many  histo 
ries  and  philosophic  theories.  The  fictions  of  genius  are 
often  the  vehicles  of  the  sublimest  verities,  and  its  flashes 
often  open  new  regions  of  thought,  and  throw  new  light  on 
the  mysteries  of  our  being.  In  poetry  the  letter  is  false 
hood,  but  the  spirit  is  often  profoundest  wisdom.  And  if 
truth  thus  dwells  in  the  boldest  fictions  of  the  poet,  much 
more  may  it  be  expected  in  his  delineations  of  life  ;  for  the 
present  life,  which  is  the  first  stage  of  the  immortal  mind 
abounds  in  the  materials  of  poetry,  and  it  is  the  highest 
office  of  the  bard  to  detect  this  divine  element  among  the 
grosser  pleasures  and  labours  of  oar  earthly  being.  The 
present  life  is  not  wholly  prosaic,  precise,  tame  and  finite. 
To  the  gifted  eye  it  abounds  in  the  poetic.  The  affections 
which  spread  beyond  ourselves,  and  stretch  far  into  futurity; 
the  workings  of  mighty  passions,  which  seem  to  'arm  the 
soul  with  an  almost  superhuman  energy  ;  the  innocent  and 
irrepressible  joy  of  infancy;  the  bloom,  and  buoyancy,  and 
dazzling  hopes  of  youth ;  the  throbhings  of  the  heart 
when  it  first  wakes  to  love,  and  dreams  of  a  happiness  too 
vast  for  earth;  woman,  with  her  beauty,  and  grace,  and 
gentleness,  and  fulness  of  feeling,  and  depth  of  affection, 
and  her  blushes  of  purity,  and  the  tones  arxl  looks  which 
only  a  mother's  heart  can  inspire  ; — these  are  all  poetical. 
It  is  not  true  that  the  poet  paints  a  life  which  does  not 
exist.  He  only  extracts  and  concentrates,  as  it  were,  life's 
ethereal  essence,  arrests  and  condenses  its  volatile  fra 
grance  »rings  together  its  scattered  beauties,  and  prolongs 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  115 

its  more  refined  but  evanescent  joys ;  and  in  this  he  does 
well ;  for  it  is  good  to  feel  that  life  is  not  wholly  usurped 
by  cares  for  subsidence  and  physical  gratifications,  but 
admits,  in  measures  which  may  be  indefinitely  enlarged, 
sentiments  and  delights  worthy  of  a  higher  being.  This 
power  of  poetry  to  refine  our  views  of  life  and  happiness, 
is  more  and  more  needed  as  society  advances.  It  is  needed 
to  withstand  the  encroachments  of  heartless  and  artificial 
t  anners,  which  make  civilization  so  tame  and  uninterest 
ing.  It  is  needed  to  counteract  the  tendency  of  physical 
science,  which,  being  now  sought,  not,  as  formerly,  for  in 
tellectual  gratification,  but  for  multiplying  bodily  comforts, 
requires  a  new  developement  of  imagination,  taste  and 
poetry,  to  preserve  men  from  sinking  into  an  earthly, 
material,  epicurean  life. 

Our  remarks  in  vindication  of  poetry  have  extended  be 
yond  our  original  design.  They  have  had  a  higher  aim 
than  to  asseit  the  dignity  of  Milton  as  a  poet,  and  that  is,  to 
endear  an»l  recommend  this  divine  art  to  all  who  reverence, 
and  weald  cultivate  and  refine  their  nature. 


Eloquent  Jlppcal  in  Favour  of  the  Greeks. — NORTH 
AMERICAN  REVIEW.* 

THERE  is  an  individual,  who  sits  on  no  throne,  in  whose 
veins  no  aristocratic  blood  runs,  who  derives  no  influence 
from  amassed  or  inherited  wealth,  but  who,  by  the  simple 
supremacy  of  mind,  exercises,  at  this  moment,  a  political 
sway,  as  mighty  as  that  of  Napoleon  at  the  zenith  of  his 
power.  Indebted  for  his  own  brilliant  position  to  the  lib 
erality  of  the  age,  which  is  shaking  off  the  fetters  of  an 
cient  prejudices,  this  literal  ruler  by  the  grace  of  God  can 
feel  no  deference  for  most  of  the  maxims,  by  which  the 


*  The  article,  from  which  this  extract  is  taken,  is  ascribed  to  the  pen 
of  the  Hon.  Edward  Everett.  Little  did  its  author  imagine,  whiie  thus 
eloquently  apostrophizing  the  prime  minister  of  England,  that  he  was 
so  soon  to  be  withdrawn  by  the  mysterious  band  of  the  Almighty  from 
that  wide  sphere  of  power  and  benevolence,  to  which  the  "  liberality 
of  the  age"  had  exalted  him. — I'D 


116  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

neutrality  of  England  in  the  wars  of  Grecian  liberty  it 
justified.  How  devoutly  is  it  to  be  wished,  that  the  pure 
and  undying  glory  of  restoring  another  civilized  region  to 
the  family  of  Christendom,  could  present  itself  in  vision  to 
the  mind  of  this  fortunate  statesman ;  that,  turning  from 
his  fond  but  magnificent  boast,  that  he  had  called  into  exist 
ence  a  new  world  in  the  Indies,  he  would  appropriate  to  him 
self  the  immortal  fame,  which  could  not  be  gainsaid,  of  hav- 
ir.g  recalled  to  life  the  fairest  region  of  Europe.  He  has  but 
to  speak  the  word  within  the  narrow  walls  of  St.  Stephen's, 
and  the  sultan  trembles  on  his  throne.  He  has  but  to  speak 
the  word,  and  all  the  poor  scruples  and  hypocritical  sophis 
tries  of  the  continental  cabinets  vanish  into  air.  Let  him 
then  abandon  the  paltry  chase  of  a  few  ragamuffin  Portu 
guese  malecontents,  and  follow  a  game,  which  is  worthy 
of  himself  and  the  people  whose  organ  he  is.  Let  him 
pronounce  the  sentence  of  expulsion  from  Europe  of  the 
cruel  and  barbarous  despotism,  which  has  so  long  oppressed 
it.  The  whole  civilized  world  will  applaud  and  sanction 
the  decree  ;  he  will  alleviate  an  amount  of  human  suf 
fering,  he  will  work  out  a  sum  of  human  good,  which  the 
revolutions  of  ages  scarcely  put  it  within  the  reach  of  men, 
or  governments,  to  avert  or  effect.  He  will  encircle  his 
plebeian  temples  with  a  wreath  of  fame,  compared  with 
which  the  diadem  of  tbs  monarch  whom  he  serves  is 
worthless  dross. 


At  all  events,  there  they  are,  a  gallant  race,  struggling, 
single-handed,  for  independence ;  an  extraordinary  specta 
cle  to  the  world  !  With  scarcely  a  government  of  their 
own,  and  without  the  assistance  of  any  established  power, 
they  have  waged,  for  six  years,  a  fearfully  contested  war 
against  one  of  the  great  empires  of  the  earth.  When  Mr. 
Canning  lately  held  out  the  menace  of  war  against  those 
continental  nations  who  should  violently  interfere  with  the 
English  system,  he  sought  to  render  the  menace  more 
alarming,  by  calling  it "  a  war  of  opinions,"  in  which  the  dis 
contented  of  every  other  country  would  rally  against  their 
own  government  under  the  banners  of  Great  Britain.  On 
»Jiis  menace,  which,  considering  the  quarter  from  whence  i4 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF    PROSE.  117 

proceeds,  comes  with  somewhat  of  a  revolutionary  and  dis 
organizing  tone,  we  have  now  no  comment  to  ma°ke.  The 
war  i.ow  raging  in  Greece  is,  in  a  much  higher  and  better 
sense,  a  war  of  opinion  which  has  actually  begun  ;  and  in 
which  the  unarrayed,  the  unofficial,  and,  we  had  almost 
said,  the  individual  efforts  and  charities  of  the  friends  of 
liberty  throughout  Christendom  are  combatting,  and  thus 
far  successfully,  the  barbarous  hosts  of  the  Turk.  De 
serted  as  they  have  been  by  the  governments  to  whom  they 
naturally  looked  for  aid  ;  by  Russia,  who  tamely  sees  the 
head  of  the  Russian  church  hung  up  at  the  door  of  his  own 
cathedral ;  by  England,  the  champion  of  liberal  principles 
in  Europe,  and  the  protectress  of  the  Ionian  Isles ;  by  the 
Holy  Alliance,  that  takes  no  umbrage  at  the  debarkation 
of  army  after  army  of  swarthy  infidels  on  the  shores  of  a 
Christian  country ; — the  Greeks  have  still  been  cheered 
and  sustained  by  the  sympathy  of  the  civilized  world.  Gal 
lant  volunteers  have  crowded  to  their  assistance,  and  some 
of  the  best  blood  in  Europe  has  been  shed  in  their  defence. 
Liberal  contributions  of  money  have  been  sent  to  them 
across  the  globe  ;  and,  while  we  write  these  sentences,  sup 
plies  are  despatched  to  them  from  various  parts  of  our  own 
country,  sufficient  to  avert  the  horrors  of  famine  for 
another  season.  The  direct  effect  of  these  contributions, 
great  as  it  is,  (and  it  is  this  which  has  enabled  the  Greeks 
to  hold  out  thus  far,)  is  not  its  best  operation.  We  live  in 
an  age  of  moral  influences.  Greece,  in  these  various  acts, 
feels  herself  incorporated  into  the  family  of  civilized  na 
tions  ;  raised  out  of  the  prison-house  of  a  cruel  and  besot 
ted  despotism,  into  the  community  of  enlightened  states 
Let  an  individual  fall  in  with  and  be  assailed  by  a  superior 
force  in  the  lonely  desert,  on  the  solitary  ocean,  or  beneath 
the  cover  of  darkness,  and  his  heart  sinks  within  him,  as 
he  receives  blow  after  blow,  and  feels  his  strength  wasting 
in  the  unwitnessed  and  uncheered  struggle  :  but  let  the 
sound  of  human  voices  swell  upon  his  ear,  or  a  friendly 
sail  draw  nigh,  and  life  and  hope  revive  within  his  bosom. 
Nor  is  human  nature  different  in  its  operation  in  the  large 
masses  of  men.  Can  any  one  doubt,  that,  if  the  Greeks, 
instead  ol  being  placed  where  they  are,  on  a  renowned 
vena,  in  sight  of  the  civilized  world, — visited,  aided,  ap 


118  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  Ol'  PROSE. 

plauded  as  they  have  been,  from  one  extreme  of  Christen 
dom  to  the  other, — had  been  surrounded  by  barbarism,  se« 
eluded  in  the  interior  of  the  Turkish  empire,  without  a 
medium  of  communication  with  the  world,  they  would 
have  been  swe-pt  away  in  a  single  campaign  ?  They  would 
have  been  crushed ;  they  would  have  been  trampled  into 
the  dust ;  and  the  Tartars,  that  returned  from  the  massa 
cre,  would  have  brought  the  first  tidings  of  theii  struggle. 
This  is  our  encouragement  to  persevere  in  calling  the  at 
tention  of  the  public  to  this  subject.  It  is  a  warfare  in 
which  we  all  arc  or  ought  to  be  enlisted.  It  is  a  war  of 
opinion,  and  of  feeling,  and  of  humanity.  It  is  a  great  war 
of  public  sentiment ;  not  conflicting  (as  it  is  commonly 
called  to  do)  merely  with  public  sentiment  operating  in  an 
opposite  direction,  but  with  a  powerful,  barbarous,  and  des 
potic  government.  The  strength  and  efficacy  of  the  pub 
lic  sentiment  of  the  civilized  world  are  now,  therefore,  to 
be  put  to  the  test  on  a  large  scale,  and  upon  a  most  mo 
mentous  issue.  It  is  now  to  be  seen  whether  mankind, 
that  is,  its  civilized  portion, — whether  enlightened  Europe 
and  enlightened  America  will  stand  by,  and  behold  a  civil 
ized  Christian  people  massacred  en  masse ;  whether  a 
people  that  cultivate  the  arts  which  we  cultivate, — that 
enter  into  friendly  intercourse  with  us, — that  send  their 
children  to  our  schools, — that  translate  and  read  our  histo 
rians,  philosophers  and  moralists, — that  live  by  the  same 
rule  of  faith,  and  die  in  the  hope  of  the  same  Saviour,  shall 
be  allowed  to  be  hewn  down  to  the  earth  in"  our  sight,  by  a 
savage  horde  of  Ethiopians  and  Turks.  For  ourselves,  we 
do  not  believe  it.  An  inward  assurance  tells  us  that  it 
cannot  be.  Such  an  atrocity  never  has  happened  in  hu 
man  affairs,  and  will  not  now  be  permitted.  As  the  horrid 
catastrophe  draws  near,  if  draw  near  it  must,  the  Christ'  ui 
governments  will  awaken  from  their  apathy.  If  govern 
ments  remain  enchained  by  reasons  of  state,  the  comirjrjn 
feeling  of  humanity  among  men  will  burst  out,  in  some  ef 
fectual  interference.  And  if  this  fail,  why  should  not 
Providence  graciously  interpose,  to  prevent  the  extinction 
of  the  only  people,  in  whose  churches  the  New  Testament 
is  used  in  the  original  tongue  ?  Is  it  not  a  pertinent  sub 
ject  of  inquiry  with  those,  who  administer  the  religion* 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  119 

charities  of  this  and  other  Christian  countries,  whether  the 
entire  cause  of  the  diffusion  of  the  Gospel  is  not  more  close 
ly  connected  with  the  event  of  the  struggle  in  Greece, 
than  with  any  thing  else,  in  any  part  of  the  world  ?  Is 
not  the  question  whether  Greece  and  her  islands  shall  be 
Christian  or  Mahometan,  a  more  important  question  than 
any  other,  in  the  decision  of  which  we  have  the  remotest 
agency  ?  Might  not  a  well-devised  and  active  concert 
among  the  Christian  charitable  societies  in  Europe  and 
America,  for  the  sake  of  rescuing  this  Christian  people,  pre 
sent  the  most  auspicious  prospect  of  success,  and  form  an 
organization  adequate  to  the  importance  and  sacredness  of 
the  object  ?  And  can  any  man,  who  has  humanity,  liber 
ty,  or  Christianity  at  heart,  feel  justified  in  forbearing  to 
sive  his  voice,  his  aid,  his  sympathy,  to  this  cause,  in  any 
way  in  which  it  is  practicable  to  advance  it. 

Muall  as  are  the  numbers  of  the  Greeks,  and  limited  as 
is  their  country,  it  may  be  safely  said,  that  there  has  not, 
since  the  last  Turkish  invasion  of  Europe,  been  waged  a 
war,  of  which  the  results,  in  the  worst  event,  could  have 
been  so  calamitous,  as  it  must  be  allowed  by  every  reflect 
ing  mind,  that  the  subjugation  and  consequent  extirpation 
of  the  Greeks  would  be.  The  wars  that  are  waged  be 
tween  the  states  of  Christendom,  generally  grow  out  of 
disputed  titles  of  princes,  or  state  quarrels  between  the 
governments.  Serious  changes  no  doubt  take  place,  as 
these  wars  may  be  decided  one  way  or  the  other.  Nations, 
formerly  well  governed,  may  come  under  an  arbitrary 
sway  ;  or  a  despotic  be  exchanged  for  a  milder  govern 
ment.  But,  inasmuch  as  victor  and  vanquished  belong  to 
the  same  civilized  family ;  and  the  social  condition,  the 
standard  of  morality,  and  the  received  code  of  public  law, 
are  substantially  the  same  in  all  the  nations  of  Europe ;  no 
irreparable  disaster  to  the  cause  of  humanity  itself  can  en 
sue  from  any  war,  in  which  they  may  be  engaged  with 
each  other  Had  Napoleon,  for  instance,  succeeded  in  in 
vading  and  conquering  England,  (and  this  is  probably  the 
strongest  case  that  could  be  put,)  after  the  first  calamitifis 
of  invasion  and  conquest  were  past,  which  must  in  all  cases 
be  much  the  same,  no  worse  evils  would  probably  have 
esulted  to  the  cause  of  humanity,  than  the  restoration  of 


120  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ihe  Catholic  religion  as  the  religion  of  the  state,  tli3  intro- 
Cue/ion  of  the  civil  law  in  place  of  the  common  law,  and 
:he  general  exclusion  of  the  English  nobility  and  gentry 
from  offices  of  power  and  profit ;  an  exclusion,  which 
the  English  government  itself,  since  the  year  1688,  has 
enforced  towards  the  Catholic  families,  among  which  are 
some  of  the  oldest  and  richest  in  the  kingdom.  Whereas, 
should  the  Turks  prevail  in  the  present  contest,  an  amal 
gamation  of  victor  and  vanquished  would  be  as  impracti 
cable  now,  as  when  Greece  was  first  conquered  by  the 
Ottoman  power.  The  possession  of  the  country  has  been 
promised  to  the  Bey  of  Egypt,  as  the  reward  of  his  services 
In  effecting  its  conquest.  The  men-at-arms  have  already 
been  doomed  to  military  execution  of  the  most  cruel  kind, 
and  the  women  and  children  would  be  sold  into  Asiatic  and 
African  bondage. 

We  are  not  left  to  collect  this  merely  from  the  known 
maxims  of  Turkish  warfare,  nor  the  menaces  which  have 
repeatedly  been  made  by  the  Porte,  but  we  see  it  exem 
plified  in  the  island  of  Scio.  On  the  soil  of  Greece,  thus 
swept  of  its  present  population,  will  be  settled  the  Egyptian 
and  Turkish  troops,  by  whom  it  shall  have  been  subdued. 
Thus  will  have  been  cut  off,  obliterated  from  the  map  of 
Europe,  and  annihilated  by  the  operation  of  whatever  is 
most  barbarous  and  terrific  in  the  military  practice  of  the 
Turkish  government,  an  entire  people  ;  one  of  those  dis 
tinct  social  families,  into  which  Providence  collects  the  sons 
of  men.  In  them  will  perish  the  descendants  of  ancestors, 
toward  whom  we  all  profess  a  reverence ;  who  carry,  in 
the  language  they  speak,  the  proof  of  their  national  iden 
tity.  In  them  will  be  exterminated  a  people  apt  and  pre 
disposed  for  all  the  improvements  of  civilized  life  ;  a  peo 
ple  connected  with  the  rest  of  Europe  by  every  moral  and 
intellectual  association,  and  capable  of  being  reared  up  into 
a  prosperous  and  cultivated  state.  Finally ;  in  them  will 
perish  one  whole  Christian  people  ;  and  that  the  first  that 
embraced  Christianity  ;  churches  actually  founded  by  the 
apostles  in  person,  churches,  for  whose  direct  instruction  a 
considerable  part  of  the  New  Testament  was  composed, 
after  abiding  all  the  storms  of  eighteen  centuries,  and  sur 
viving  so  many  vicissitudes,  are  now  at  length  to  bo 


COMMON-PLACE    UOUK    OF    PROSE.  121 

razed;  and,  in  the  place  of  all  this,  an  uncivilized  Ma 
hometan  horde  is  to  be  established  upon  the  ruins.  We 
say  it  is  a  most  momentous  alternative.  Interest  htimani 
generis.  The  character  of  the  age  is  concerned.  The 
inpending  evil  is  tremendous.  To  preserve  the  faith  of 
certain  old  treaties,  concluded  we  forget  when,  the  parlia 
ment  of  England  decides  by  acclamation  to  send  an  army 
into  Portugal  and  Spain,  because  Spain  has  patronised  the 
disaffection  of  the  Portuguese  ultra-royalists.  To  prevent 
a  change  in  the  governments  of  Piedmont,  Naples  and 
Spain,  Austria  and  France  invade  those  countries  with 
large  armies.  Can  those  great  powers  look  tamely  on,  and 
see  the  ruin  of  their  Christian  brethren  consummated  in 
Greece  ?  Is  there  a  faded  parchment  in  the  diplomatic  ar 
chives  of  London  or  Lisbon,  that  binds  the  English  gov 
ernment  more  imperiously  than  the  great  original  obliga 
tion  to  rescue  an  entire  Christian  people  from  the  cimeter  ? 
Can  statesmen,  who  profess  to  be,  who  are,  influenced  by 
the  rules  of  a  chaste  and  lofty  public  morality,  justify  their 
sanguinary  wars  with  Ashantees  and  Burmans,  and  find 
reasons  of  duty  for  shaking  the  petty  thrones  of  the  interior 
of  Africa,  and  allow  an  African  satrap  to  strew  the  plains 
of  Attica  with  bloody  ashes  ? 

If  they  can,  and  if  they  will,  then  let  the  friends  of  lib 
erty,  humanity,  and  religion,  take  up  this  cause,  as  one  thai 
concerns  them,  all  and  each,  in  his  capacity  as  a  Christian 
and  a  man.  Let  them  make  strong  the  public  sentiment 
on  this  subject,  and  it  will  prevail.  Let  them  remember 
what  ere  now  has  been  done,  by  the  perseverance  and  res 
olution  of  small  societies,  and  even  individual  men.  Let 
them  remember  how  small  a  company  of  adventurers,  un- 
patronised,  scarcely  tolerated  by  their  government,  suc 
ceeded  in  laying  the  foundations  of  this  our  happy  coun 
try  beyond  a  mighty  ocean.  Let  them  recollect,  that  it 
was  one  fixed  impression,  cherished  and  pursued  in  the 
heart  of  an  humble  and  friendless  mariner,  through  long 
years  of  fruitless  solicitation  and  fainting  hope,  to  which  it 
is  owing,  that  these  vast  American  continents  are  made  a 
part  of  the  heritage  of  civilized  man.  Let  them  recollect 
that,  in  the  same  generation,  one  poor  monk  dismembered 
the  great  ecclesiastical  empire  of  Europe.  Let  them  bear 
11 


122  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PUOSE. 

in  mind,  that  it  was  a  hermit  who  roused  the  nations  of 
Europe  in  mass,  to  engage  in  an  expedition  against  the 
common  enemy  of  Chistendom  ;  an  expedition,  wild  indeed, 
and  unjustifiable,  according  to  our  better  lights,  but  lawful 
and  meritorious  in  those  who  embarked  in  it.  Let  them, 
in  a  word,  never  forget,  that  when,  on  those  lovely  islands 
and  once  happy  shores,  over  which  a  dark  cloud  of  destruc 
tion  now  hangs,  the  foundations  of  the  Christian  church 
were  first  laid,  it  was  by  the  hands  of  private,  obscure  and 
persecuted  individuals.  It  was  the  people,  the  humblest 
of  the  people,  that  took  up  the  Gospel,  in  defiance  of  all 
the  patronage,  the  power,  and  the  laws  of  the  government. 
Why  should  not  Christianity  be  sustained  in  the  same  coun 
try,  and  by  the  same  means  by  which  it  was  originally  es 
tablished  ?  If,  as  we  believe,  it  is  the  strong  and  decided 
sentiment  of  the  civilized  world,  that  the  cause  of  the 
Greeks  is  a  good  cause,  and  that  they  ought  not  to  be  al 
lowed  to  perish,  it  cannot  be  that  this  sentiment  will  re 
main  inoperative.  The  very  existence  of  this  sentiment 
is  a  tower  of  strength.  It  will  make  itself  felt  by  a  thou 
sand  manifestations.  It  will  be  heard  in  our  senates  and 
our  pulpits  ;  it  will  be  echoed  from  our  firesides.  Does 
any  one  doubt  the  cause  of  America  was  mightily  strength 
ened  and  animated  by  the  voices  of  the  friends  of  liberty 
in  the  British  parliament  ?  Were  not  the  speeches  of 
Chatham  and  Burke  worth  a  triumphant  battle  to  our  fa 
thers  ?  And  can  any  one  doubt  that  the  Grecian  patriots 
will  hold  out,  so  long  as  the  Christian  world  will  cheer 
them  with  its  sanction  ? 

Let,  then,  the  public  mind  be  disabused  of  the  prejudices 
which  mislead  it  on  this  question.  Let  it  not  be  operated 
upon  by  tales  of  piracies  at  sea,  and  factions  on  land  ;  evils, 
which  belong  not  to  Greeks,  but  to  human  nature.  Le* 
the  means  of  propagating  authentic  intelligence  of  the  pro 
gress  of  the  revolution  be  multiplied.  Let  its  well-wishers 
and  its  well-hopers  declare  themselves  in  the  cause.  Let 
the  tide  of  pious  and  Christian  charity  be  turned  into  thi» 
broad  and  thirsty  channel.  Let  every  ardent  and  high- 
spirited  young  man,  who  has  an  independent  subsistence 
of  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  a  year,  embark  personally 
in  the  cause,  and  aspire  to  that  crown  of  glory,  never  yel 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PUOSE.  123 

worn  except  by  him  who  so  lately  triumphed  in  the  hearts 
of  the  entire  millions  of  Americans.  Let  this  be  done, 
and  Greece  is  safe. 


Death  of  Josiah  Quincy,  Jun. — J.  QUINCY. 

AFTER  being  five  weeks  at  sea,  the  wished-for  shore 
yet  at  a  distance,  he  became  convinced  that  his  fate  was 
inevitable, — and  prepared  to  submit  himself  to  the  will  of 
Heaven  with  heroic  calmness  and  Christian  resignation. 
Under  the  pressure  of  disease,  and  amidst  the  daily  sink 
ing  of  nature,  his  friends,  his  family,  and,  above  all,  his 
country,  predominated  in  his  affections.  He  repeatedly 
said  to  the  seaman  on  whose  attentions  he  was  chiefly  de 
pendant,  that  he  had  but  one  desire  and  one  prayer,  which 
was,  that  he  might  live  long  enough  to  have  an  interview 
with  Samuel  Adams  or  Joseph  Warren  ; — that  granted,  he 
should  die  content.  This  wish  of  the  patriot's  heart, 
Heaven,  in  its  inscrutable  wisdom,  did  not  grant. 

As  he  drew  towards  his  native  shore,  the  crisis  he  had 
so  long  foreseen  arrived.  The  battle  of  Lexington  was 
fought.  According  to  his  predictions,  "  his  countrymen 
sealed  their  faith  and  constancy  to  their  liberties  with  their 
blood."  But  he  lived  not  to  hear  the  event  of  that  glori 
ous  day. 

While  yet  the  ship  was  three  days'  sail  from  land,  ex 
hausted  by  disease,  and  perceiving  his  last  hour  approach, 
he  called  the  seaman  to  the  side  of  his  birth,  and,  being 
himself  too  weak  to  write,  dictated  to  him  a  letter  full  of 
the  most  interesting  and  affecting  communications  to  his 
family  and  nearest  friends.  This  letter  still  exists 
among  his  papers,  in  the  rude  hand-writing  of  an  illiterate 
tailor. 

Such  is  the  last  notice  of  the  close  of  the  life  of  Josiah 
Quincy,  Jun.  On  the  26th  of  April,  1775,  within  sight  of 
that  beloved  country,  which  he  was  not  permitted  to  reach; 
neither  supported  by  the  kindness  of  friendship,  nor  cheer 
ed  by  the  voice  of  aiTection,  he  expired  ; — not,  indeed,  ai 


124  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

*  few  wueks  afterwards  did  his  friend  and  co-patriot  War 
ren,  in  battle,  on  a  field  ever-memorable  and  glorious  ;  but 
in  solitude,  amidst  suffering,  without  associate  and  without 
witness  ;  yet  breathing  forth  a  dying  sigh  for  his  country, 
desiring  to  live  only  to  perform  towards  her  a  last  and  sig 
nal  service 

A  few  hours  after  his  death,  the  shipv  with  his  lifeless 
remains,  entered  the  harbour  of  Gloucester,  Cape  Ann. 

His  arrival  had  been  anticipated  with  anxious  solicitude, 
and  the  intelligence  of  his  death  was  received  with  an  uni 
versal  sorrow.  By  his  family  and  immediate  friends,  the 
event  was  mourned  as  the  extinction  of  their  brightest 
hope.  His  contemporaries,  faithful  to  his  virtues,  and 
deeply  sensible  of  his  services,  early  associated  his  name 
with  those  most  honoured  and  most  beloved  of  the  period 
in  which  he  lived.  It  was  his  lot  to  compress  events  and 
exertions  sufficient  for  a  long  life  within  the  compass  of  a 
few  short  years.  To  live  forever  in  the  hearts  of  his  coun 
trymen,  and,  by  labour  and  virtue,  to  become  immortal  in 
the  memory  of  future  times,  were  the  strong  passions  of 
his  soul.  That  he  was  prohibited  from  filling  the  great 
sphere  of  usefulness,  for  which  his  intellectual  powers 
seemed  adapted  and  destined,  is  less  a  subject  of  regret, 
than  it  is  of  joy  and  gratitude  that  he  was  permitted,  in  so 
short  a  time,  to  perform  so  noble  a  part,  and  that  to  his 
desire  has  been  granted  so  large  a  portion  of  that  imperish 
able  meed,  which,  beyond  all  earthly  reward,  was  the  ob 
ject  of  his  search  and  solicitude. 


Danger  of  Delay  in  Religion. — BTTCKMINSTEB 

IT  has  been  most  acutely  and  justly  observed,  that  all 
resolutions  to  r«pent  at  a  future  time  are  necessarily  in 
sincere,  and  must  be  a  mere  deception;  because  they  im 
ply  a  preference  of  a  man's  present  habits  and  conduct , 
they  imply,  that  he  is  really  unwilling  to  change  them, 
and  that  nothing  but  necessity  would  lead  him  to  make  any 
attempt  of  the  kind.  But  let  us  suppose  the  expected  lei- 
tmre  for  repentance  to  have  arrived ;  the  avaricious  of 


COMMON-PLACE    COOK  OF  PROSE.  125 

fraudulent  dealer  to  have  attained  that  competency,  which 
is  to  secure  him  from  want ;  the  profligate  and  debauched 
to  have  passed  the  slippery  season  of  youth,  and  to  be  es 
tablished  in  life  ;  the  gamester,  by  one  successful  throw,  to 
have  recovered  his  desperate  finances  ;  the  dissipated  and 
luxurious  to  have  secured  a  peaceful  retreat  for  the  re« 
mainder  of  his  days ; — to  each  of  these  the  long  anticipated 
hour  of  amendment,  the  opportune  leisure  for  religion,  has 
at  length  arrived ;  but  where,  alas !  is  the  disposition !  where 
the  necessary  strength  of  resolution !  How  rare,  and,  I 
had  almost  said,  how  miraculous,  is  the  instance  of  a 
change  ! 

The  danger  of  delay,  even  if  we  suppose  this  uncertain 
leisure  and  inclination  to  be  secured,  is  inconceivably 
heightened,  when  we  consider,  further,  the  nature  of  re 
pentance.  It  is  a  settled  change  of  the  disposition  from 
vice  to  virtue,  discovered  in  the  gradual  improvement  of 
the  life.  It  is  not  a  fleeting  wish,  a  vapoury  sigh,  p  length 
ened  groan.  Neither  is  it  a  twinge  of  remorse,  t  flutter 
of  fear,  nor  any  temporary  and  partial  resolution.  The 
habits  of  a  sinner  have  been  long  in  forming.  They  have 
acquired  a  strength,  which  is  not  to  be  broken  by  a  blow 
The  labour  of  a  day  will  not  build  up  a  virtuous  habit  on 
the  ruins  of  an  old  and  vicious  character.  You,  then,  who 
have  deferred,  from  year  to  year,  the  relinquishment  of  a 
vice  ;  you,  if  such  there  be,  who,  while  the  wrinkles  are 
gathering  in  your  foreheads,  are  still  dissatisfied  with  your 
selves,  remember,  that  amendment  is  a  slow  and  laborious 
process.  Can  you  be  too  assiduous,  too  fearful,  when  you 
consider  how  short  the  opportunity,  and  how  much  is  re 
quired  to  complete  the  work  of  reformation,  and  to  estab 
lish  the  dominion  of  virtue  ? 

It  is  impossible  to  dismiss  this  subject  without  consider 
ing  a  common  topic, — the  inefficacy  of  a  death-bed  repent 
ance  It  is  to  be  feared  that  charity,  which  hopeth  and 
oelieveth  all  things,  has  sometimes  discovered  more  of 
generous  credulity,  than  of  well-founded  hope,  when  it 
has  laid  great  stress,  and  huilt  much  consolation,  on  the 
casual  expressions  and  faint  »ighs  of  dying  men.  Far  be  it 
from  us  to  excite  suspicion  or  recall  anxiety  in  the  breast  of 
surviving  friendship,,  or  to  throw  ft  new  shade  of  terror 
11  * 


I2<6  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  THOSE. 

over  the  valley  of  death  ;  but  better,  far  better,  were  it 
for  a  thousand  breasts  to  be  pierced  with  temporary  anguish, 
and  a  new  ho.ror  be  added  to  the  dreary  passage  of  the 
grave,  than  that  one  soul  be  lost  to  heaven  by  the  delusive 
expectation  of  effectual  repentance  in  a  dying  hour.  For, 
as  we  have  repeatedly  asked,  what  is  effectual  repentance  ? 
Can  it  be  supposed,  that,  where  the  vigour  of  life  has  been 
spent  in  the  establishment  of  vicious  propensities  ;  where 
all  the  vivacity  of  youth,  all  the  soberness  of  manhood,  and 
all  the  leisure  of  old  age,  have  been  given  to  the  service 
of  sin  ;  where  vice  has  been  growing  with  the  growth,  and 
strengthening  with  the  strength  ;  where  it  has  spread  out 
\vi;h  the  limbs  of  the  stripling,  and  become  rigid  with  the 
fibres  of  the  aged ;  can  it,  I  say,  be  supposed,  that  the  la 
bours  of  such  a  life  are  to  be  overthrown  by  one  last  exer 
tion  of  a  mind  impaired  with  disease,  by  the  convulsive 
exercise  of  an  affrighted  spirit,  and  by  the  inarticulate  and 
feeble  sounds  of  an  expiring  breath  ?  Repentance  consists 
not  in  one  or  more  acts  of  contrition ;  it  is  a  permanent 
change  of  the  disposition.  Those  dispositions  and  habits 
of  mind,  which  you  bring  to  your  dying  bed,  you  will 
carry  with  you  to  another  world.  These  habits  are  the 
dying  dress  of  the  soul.  They  are  the  grave-clothes, 
in  which  it  must  come  forth,  at  the  last,  to  meet  the  sen 
tence  of  an  impartial  Judge.  If  they  were  filthy,  they 
will  be  filthy  still.  The  washing  of  baptismal  water  will 
not.  at  that  hour,  cleanse  the  spots  of  the  soul.  The  con 
fession  of  sins,  which  have  never  been  removed,  will  not 
furnish  the  conscience  with  an  answer  towards  God.  The 
reception  of  the  elements  will  not,  then,  infuse  a  principle 
cf  spiritual  life,  any  more  than  unconsecrated  bread  and 
•vine  will  infuse  health  into  the  limbs,  on  which  the  cold 
rfamps  of  death  have  already  collected.  Say  not,  that  you 
have  discarded  such  superstitious  expectations.  You  have 
not  discarded  them,  while  you  defer  any  thing  to  that  hour ; 
while  you  venture  to  rely  on  any  thing  but  the  mercy  of 
God  toward  a  heart,  holy,  sincere,  and  sanctified  ;  a  heart, 
which  loves  heaven  for  its  purity,  and  God  for  his  goodness. 
Jf,  in  this  solemn  hour,  the  soul  of  an  habitual  and  invet 
erate  offender  be  prepared  for  the  residence  of  pure  and 
spotless  spirits,  it  can  bo  only  by  a  sovereign  and  miracu 


COMMON-PLACE  BOCK  OF  PROSE.  127 

lous  interposition  of  Omnipotence.  His  power  we  pretend 
not  to  limit.  He  can  wash  the  sooty  Ethiop  white,  and 
cause  the  spots  on  the  leopard's  skin  to  disappear.  We 
presume  not  to  fathom  the  counsels  of  his  will ;  but  this  we 
will  venture  to  assert,  that  if,  at  the  last  hour  of  the  sin 
ner's  life,  the  power  of  God.  ever  interposes  to  sni.tch  him 
from  his  ruin,  such  interposition  will  never  be  disclosed  to 
the  curiosity  of  man.  For,  if  it  should  once  be  believed, 
that  the  rewards  of  heaven  can  be  obtained  by  such  an  in 
stantaneous  and  miraculous  change  at  the  last  hour  of  life, 
all  our  ideas  of  moral  probation,  and  of  the  connexion  be 
tween  character  here,  and  condition  hereafter,  are  loose, 
unstable,  and  groundless  ;  the  nature  and  the  laws  of  God's 
moral  government  are  made  at  once  inexplicable  ;  our  ex 
hortations  are  useless,  our  experience  false,  and  the  whole 
apparatus  of  Gospel  means  and  motives  becomes  a  cumbrous 
and  unnecessary  provision. 

What,  then,  is  the  great  conclusion,  which  we  should 
deduce  from  all  that  we  have  said  of  the  nature  of  habit, 
and  the  difficulty  of  repentance  ?  It  is  this :  Behold,  now 
is  the  accepted  time,  now  is  the  day  of  salvation.  If  -you 
are  young,  you  cannot  begin  too  soon ;  if  you  are  old,  you 
may  begin  too  late.  Age,  says  the  proverb,  strips  us  of 
every  thing,  even  of  resolution.  To-morrow  we  shall  be 
older  ;  to-morrow,  indeed,  Death  may  fix  his  seal  forever 
on  our  characters.  It  is  a  seal  which  can  never  be  broken, 
till  the  voice  of  the  Son  of  man  shall  burst  the  tombs, 
which  enclose  us.  If,  then,  we  leave  this  place,  sensible 
of  a  propensity  which  ought  to  be  restrained,  of  a  lust 
which  ought  to  be  exterminated,  of  a  habit  which  ought 
to  be  broken,  and  rashly  defer  the  hour  of  amendment, 
consider,  I  beseech  you,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  merciful  in 
God  to  refuse  us  another  opportunity.  It  may  be  a  gra 
cious  method  of  preventing  an  abuse,  which  will  only  ag 
gravate  the  retribution,  which  awaits  the  impenitent.  Make 
haste,  then,  and  delay  not  to  keep  the  commandments  of 
God  5  of  that  God,  who  has  no  pleasure  in  the  death  of  the 
wicked,  but  that  the  wicked  turn  from  his  way,  and  live 


128      COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE 


Scenes  in  Philadelphia  during  the  Prevalence  of  the 
Yellow  Fever,  in  1793.— C.  B.  BROWN. 

MY  thoughts  were  called  away  from  pursuing  these  in« 
quiries  by  a  rumour,  which  had  gradually  swelled  to  formi 
dable  dimensions  ;  and  which,  at  length,  reached  us  in  our 
quiet  retreats.  The  city,  we  were  told,  was  involved  in 
confusion  and  panic ;  for  a  pestilential  disease  had  begun  its 
destructive  progress.  Magistrates  and  citizens  were  flying 
to  the  country.  The  numbers  of  the  sick  multiplied  beyond 
all  example  ;  even  in  the  pest-affected  cities  of  the  Levant. 
The  malady  was  malignant  and  unsparing. 

The  usual  occupations  and  amusements  of  life  were  at  an 
end.  Terror  had  exterminated  all  the  sentiments  of  nature. 
Wives  were  deserted  by  husbands,  and  children  by  parents. 
Some  had  shut  themselves  in  their  houses,  and  debarred 
themselves  from  all  communication  with  the  rest  of  man 
kind.  The  consternation  of  others  had  destroyed  their  un 
derstanding,  and  their  misguided  steps  hurried  them  into  the 
midst  of  the  danger  which  they  had  previously  laboured  to 
shun.  Men  were  seized  by  this  disease  in  the  streets ;  pas 
sengers  fled  from  them  ;  entrance  into  their  own  dwellings 
was  denied  to  them ;  they  perished  in  the  public  ways. 

The  chambers  of  disease  were  deserted,  and  the  sick  left 
to  die  of  negligence.  None  could  be  found  to  remove  the 
lifeless  bodies.  Their  remains,  suffered  to  decay  by  piece 
meal,  filled  the  air  with  deadly  exhalations,  and  added  ten 
fold  to  the  devastation. 

Such  was  the  tale,  distorted  and  diversified  a  thousand 
ways,  by  the  credulity  and  exaggeration  of  the  tellers.  At 
first  I  listened  to  the  story  with  indifference  or  mirth.  Me- 
thought  it  was  confuted  by  its  own  extravagance.  The 
enormity  and  variety  of  such  an  evil  made  it  unworthy  to 
be  believed.  I  expected  that  every  new  day  would  detect 
the  absurdity  and  fallacy  of  such  representations.  Every 
new  day,  however,  added  to  the  number  of  witnesses,  and 
the  consistency  of  the  tale,  till,  at  length,  it  was  not  possi 
ble  to  withhold  my  faith. 

This  rumour  was  of  a  nature  to  absorb  and  suspend  the 
whole  soul.  A  certain  sublimity  is  connected  with  enormou* 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  129 

dangers,  that  imparts  to  our  consternation  or  our  pity  a  tinc 
ture  of  the  pleasing.  This,  at  least,  may  be  experienced 
by  those  who  are  beyond  the  verge  of  peril.  My  own  per 
son  was  exposed  to  no  hazard.  I  had  leisure  to  conjure 
up  terrific  images,  and  to  personate  the  witnesses  and  suf 
ferers  of  this  calamity.  This  employment  was  not  enjoin 
ed  upon  me  by  necessity,  but  was  ardently  pursued,  and 
must  therefore  have  been  recommended  by  some  nameless 
charm. 

Others  were  very  differently  affected.  As  often  as  the 
tale  was  embellished  with  new  incidents,  or  enforced  by 
ne»v  testimony,  the  hearer  grew  pale,  his  breath  was  stifled 
by  inquietudes,  his  blood  was  chilled,  and  his  stomach  was 
bereaved  of  its  usual  energies.  A  temporary  indisposition 
was  produced  in  many.  Some  were  haunted  by  a  melan 
choly  bordering  upon  madness,  and  some,  in  consequence 
of  sleepless  panics,  for  which  no  cause  could  be  assigned, 
and  for  which  no  opiates  could  be  faand,  were  attacked  by 
lingering  or  mortal  diseases. 


In  proportion  as  I  drew  near  the  city,  the  tokens  of  it? 
calamitous  condition  became  more  apparent.  Every  farm 
house  was  filled  with  supernumerary  tenants;  fugitives  frori 
home,  and  haunting  the  skirts  of  the  road,  eager  to  detai- 
every  passenger  with  inquiries  after  news.  The  passen 
gers  were  numerous  ;  for  the  tide  of  emigration  was  by  n- 
means  exhausted.  Some  were  on  foot,  bearing  in  thci- 
countenances  the  tokens  of  their  recent  terror,  and  ful'.tl 
with  mournful  reflections  on  the  forlornnes'i  of  their  state. 
Few  had  secured  to  themselves  an  asylu'  a  i  sorae  were 
without  the  means  of  paying  for  victuals  or  lodging  for  the 
coming  night ;  others,  who  were  not  thun  ''.etcitute,  yet 
knew  not  whither  to  apply  for  entertainmei> '.  every  house 
being  already  overstocked  with  inhabir?cti.  or  barring  its 
inhospitable  doors  at  their  approach. 

Families  of  weeping  mothers,  and  «i)<i/iiyed  children, 
attended  with  a  few  pieces  of  indispensahl  j  furniture,  were 
carried  in  vehicles  of  every  form.  The  parent  or  husband 
had  perished ;  ard  'he  price  of  some  moieable,  or  the  pit 
tance  handed  forth  by  public  charity,  h<«l  been  expended 


130  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

to  purchase  the  means  of  retiring  from  this  theatre  of  disas 
ters  ;  though  uncertain  and  hopeless  of  accommodation  in 
the  neighbouring  districts. 

Between  these  and  the  fugitives  whom  curiosity  had  Jed 
to  the  road,  dialogues  frequently  took  place,  to  which  I  was 
suffered  to  listen.  From  every  mouth  the  tale  of  sorrow 
was  repeated  with  ne  *  aggravations.  Pictures  of  their  own 
distress,  or  of  that  of  their  neighbours,  were  exhibited  in  all 
the  hues  which  imagination  can  annex  to  pestilence  and 
poverty. 

My  preconceptions  of  the  evil  now  appeared  to  have 
fallen  short  of  the  truth.  The  dangers  into  which  I  was 
rushing  seemed  more  numerous  and  imminent,  than  I  had 
previously  imagined.  I  wavered  not  in  my  purpose.  A 
panic  crept  to  my  heart,  which  more  vehement  exertions 
were  necessary  to  subdue  or  control ;  but  I  harboured  not  a 
momentary  doubt  that  the  course  which  1  had  taken  was 
prescribed  by  duty.  There  was  no  difficulty  or  reluctance 
in  proceeding.  All  for  which  my  efforts  were  demanded 
was,  to  walk  in  this  path  without  tumult  or  alarm. 

Various  circumstances  had  hindered  me  from  setting  out 
upon  this  journey  as  early  as  was  proper.  My  frequent 
pauses,  to  listen  to  the  narratives  of  travellers,  contributed 
likewise  to  procrastination.  The  sun  had  nearly  set  be 
fore  I  reached  the  precincts  of  the  city.  I  pursued  the 
track  which  I  had  formerly  taken,  and  entered  High  Street 
after  night-fall.  Instead  of  equipages  and  a  throng  of  pas 
sengers,  the  voice  of  levity  and  glee,  which  I  had  for 
merly  observed,  and  which  the  mildness  of  the  season 
would,  at  other  times,  have  produced,  I  found  nothing  but 
a  dreary  solitude. 

The  market-place,  and  each  side  of  this  magnificent  ave 
nue  were  illuminated,  as  before,  by  lamps  ;  but  between 
the  verge  of  Schuylkill  and  the  heart  of  the  city,  I  met  not 
more  than  a  dozen  figures;  and  these  were  ghost-like,  wrap 
ped  in  cloaks,  from  behind  which  they  cast  upon  me  glancea 
of  wonder  and  suspicion;  and, as  I  approached, changed  their 
course,  to  avoid  touching  me.  Their  clothes  were  sprin 
kled  with  vinegar ;  and  their  nostrils  defended  from  conta 
gion  by  some  powerful  perfume. 


COMMON-PLACE    COOK  OF    PROSE.  131 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  houses,  which  I  recollected  to  have 
formerly  been,  at  this  hour,  brilliant  with  lights,  resounding 
with  lively  voices,  and  thronged  with  busy  faces.  Now,  they 
were  closed,  above  and  beiow  ;  dark,  and  without  tokens  of 
being  inhabited.  From  the  upper  windows  of  some,  a  gleam 
sometimes  fell  upon  the  pavement  I  was  traversing,  and 
showed  that  their  tenants  had  not  fled,  but  were  secluded 
or  disabled. 

These  tokens  were  new,  and  awakened  all  my  panics. 
Death  seemed  to  hover  over  this  scene,  and  I  dreaded  that 
the  floating  pestilence  had  already  lighted  on  my  frame.  I 
had  scarcely  overcome  these  tremours,  when  I  approach 
ed  a  house,  the  door  of  wkich  was  opened,  and  before 
which  stood  a  vehicle,  which  I  presently  recognised  to  be 
a  hearse. 

The  driver  was  seated  on  it.  I  stood  still  to  mark  hi» 
visage,  and  to  observe  the  course  which  he  proposed  to  take. 
Presently  a  coffin,  borne  by  two  men,  issued  from  the  house. 
The  driver  was  a  negro,  but  his  companions  were  white. 
Their  features  were  marked  by  ferocious  indifference  to 
danger  or  pity.  One  of  them,  as  he  assisted  in  thrusting  the 
coffin  into  the  cavity  provided  for  it,  said,  "  I'll  be  damned 
if  I  think  the  poor  dog  was  quite  dead.  It  was'nt  the  fever 
that  ailed  him,  but  the  sight  of  the  girl  and  her  mother  on 
the  floor.  I  wonder  how  they  all  got  into  that  room.  What 
carried  them  there  ?" 

The  other  surlily  muttered,  "  Their  legs,  to  be  sure." 

"  But  what  should  they  hug  together  in  one  room  for  ?" 

"  To  save  us  trouble,  to  be  sure." 

"  And  I  thank  them  with  all  my  heart ;  but  damn  it,  it 
was'nt  right  to  put  him  in  his  coffin  before  the  breath  was 
fairly  gone.  I  thought  the  last  look  he  gave  me,  told  me 
to  stay  a  few  minutes  " 

"  Pshaw  :  He  could  not  live.  The  sooner  dead  the  better 
for  i/.oi,  as  well  as  for  us.  Did  you  mark  how  he  eyed  us, 
when  we  carried  away  his  wife  and  daughter  ?  I  never  cried 
in  my  life,  sir.ce  I  was  knee-high,  hut  curse  me  if  I  ever  felt 
in  better  tune  for  the  business  than  just  then.  Hey  !"  con 
tinued  he,  looking  up,  and  observing  me  standing  a  few 
paces  distant,  and  listening  to  their  discourse,  "  What'f 
vanted  ?  Any  body  dead  ?" 


132  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK.  OF  1'ROSE. 

I  stayed  not  to  answer  or  parley,  but  hurried  forward 
My  joints  trembled,  and  cold  drops  stood  on  my  forehead 
I  was  ashamed  of  my  own  infirmity ;  and,  by  vigorous  ef 
forts  of  my  reason,  regained  some  degree  of  composure 
The  evening  had  now  advanced,  and  it  behooved  me  to  p:  j 
cure  accommodation  at  some  of  the  inns 

These  were  easily  distinguished  by  their  signs,  but  many 
were  without  inhabitants.  At  length  I  lighted  upon  one,  the 
hall  of  which  was  open,  and  the  windows  lifted.  After 
knocking  for  some  time,  a  young  girl  appeared,  with  many 
marks  of  distress.  In  answer  to  tr.y  question,  she  answered 
that  both  her  parents  were  sick,  and  that  they  could  re 
ceive  no  one.  I  inquired,  in  vain,  for  any  other  tavern  at 
which  strangers  might  be  accommodated.  She  knew  of 
none  such;  and  left  me,  on  some  one's  calling  to  her  from 
above,  in  the  midst  of  my  embarrassment.  After  ?.  mo 
ment's  pause,  I  returned,  discomforted  and  perplexed,  to 
the  street. 

I  proceeded,  in  a  considerable  degree,  at.  random.  At 
length  I  reached  a  spacious  building  in  Fourth  Street,  which 
the  sign-post  showed  me  to  be  an  inn.  I  knocked  loudly 
and  often  at  the  door.  At  length  a  female  opened  the 
window  of  the  second  srory,  and  in  a  tone  of  peevishness 
demanded  what  T  wanted.  I  told  her  that  I  wanted 
lodging. 

"  Go  hunt  for  it  somewhere  else,"  said  she  ;  "  you'll  find 
non°  here."  I  began  to  expostulate  ;  but  sl.e  shut  the 
window  with  quickness,  and  left  me  to  my  own  reflec 
tion. 

I  began  now  to  feel  some  regret  at  the  journey  I  had 
taken.  Never,  in  the  depth  of  caverns  or  forests,  was  I 
equally  conscious  of  loneliness.  I  was  surrounded  by  the 
habitations  of  men ;  but  I  was  destitute  of  associate  or 
friend.  I  had  money,  but  a  horse  shelter,  or  a  morstl  of 
food,  could  not  be  purchased.  I  came  for  the  purpose  of 
relieving  others,  but  stood  in  the  utmost  need  myself 
Even  in  health  my  condition  was  helpless  and  forlorn ; 
but  what  would  become  of  me,  should  this  fatal  malady 
be  contracted  ?  To  hope  that  an  asylum  would  be  afford 
ed  to  a  sick  man,  which  was  denied  to  one  in  health,  was 
unreasonable 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PRJSE.  133 


Importance  of  Knowledge  to  the  Mechanic. — 
G.  B.  EMERSON. 

LET  us  imagine  for  a  moment  the  condition  of  an  indi 
vidual,  who  has  not  advanced  beyond  the  merest  elements 
of  knowledge,  wnc  understands  nothing  of  the  principles 
even  of  his  own  art,  and  inquire  what  change  will  be 
wrought  in  his  feelings,  his  hopes,  and  happiness,  in  all 
that  makes  up  the  character,  by  the  gradual  inpouring  of 
knowledge.  He  has  now  the  capacity  of  thought,  but  it 
is  a  barren  faculty,  never  nourished  by  the  food  of  the 
mind,  and  never  rising  above  the  poor  objects  of  sense. 
Labour  and  rest,  the  hope  of  mere  animal  enjoyment, 
or  the  fear  of  want,  the  care  of  providing  covering  and 
food,  make  up  the  whole  sum  of  his  existence.  Such 
a  man  may  be  industrious,  but  he  cannot  love  labour,  for 
it  is  not  relieved  by  the  excitement  of  improving  or  chang 
ing  the  processes  of  his  art,  nor  cheered  by  the  hope  of  a 
better  condition.  When  released  from  labour,  he  does  not 
rejoice,  for  mere  idleness  is  not  enjoyment;  and  he  has  no 
book,  no  lesson  of  science,  no  play  of  the  mind,  no  interest 
ing  pursuit,  to  give  a  zest  to  the  hour  of  leisure.  Home 
has  few  charms  for  him  ;  he  has  little  taste  for  the  quiet, 
the  social  converse,  and  exchange  of  feeling  and  thought, 
the  innocent  enjoyments  that  ought  to  dwell  there.  Soci 
ety  has  little  to  interest  him,  for  he  has  no  sympathy  for 
the  pleasures  or  pursuits,  the  cares  or  troubles  of  others, 
to  whom  he  cannot  feel  nor  perceive  his  bonds  of  relation 
ship.  All  of  life  is  but  a  poor  boon  for  such  a  man  ;  and 
happy  for  himself  and  for  mankind,  if  the  few  ties  that  hold 
him  to  this  negative  existence  be  not  broken.  Happy  for 
him  if  that  best  and  surest  friend  of  man,  that  messenger 
of  good  news  from  Heaven  to  the  poorest  wretch  on  earth, 
Religion,  bringing  the  fear  of  God,  appear  to  save  him. 
Without  her  to  support;  should  temptation  assail  him,  what 
an  easj  victim  would  he  fall  to  vice  or  crime  !  How  little 
would  1-e  necessary  to  overturn  his  ill-balanced  principles, 
and  throw  him  grovelling  in  intemperance,  or  send  him 
abroad  on  the  ocean  or  the  highway,  an  enemy  to  himself 
and  his  kind  ! 
12 


134  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

But  lei  the  light  of  science  fall  upon  that  man  ;  open  t* 
him  the  fountain  of  knowledge  ;  a  few  principles  of  phi 
losophy  enter  his  mind,  and  awaken  the  dormant  power  of 
thought ;  he  begins  to  look  upon  his  art  with  an  altered 
eye.  It  ceases  to  be  a  dark  mechanical  process,  which  he 
cannot  understand;  he  regards  it  as  an  object  of  inquiry, 
and  begins  to  penetrate  the  reasons,  and  acquire  a  new  mas 
tery  over  his  own  instruments.  He  finds  other  and  bettei 
modes  of  doing  what  he  had  done  before,  blindly  and  with 
out  interest,  a  thousand  times.  He  learns  to  profit  by  the 
experience  of  others,  and  ventures  upon  untried  paths 
Difficulties,  which  before  would  have  stopped  him  at  the 
outset,  receive  a  ready  solution  from  some  luminous  princi 
ple  of  science.  He  gains  new  knowledge  and  new  skill, 
and  can  improve  the  quality  of  his  manufacture,  while  he 
shortens  the  process,  and  diminishes  his  own  labour.  Then 
labour  becomes  sweet  to  him;  it  is  accompanied  by  the 
consciousness  of  increasing  power ;  it  is  leading  him  for 
ward  to  a  higher  place  among  his  fellow  men.  Relaxa 
tion,  too,  is  sweet  to  him,  as  it  enables  him  to  add  to 
his  intellectual  stores,  and  to  mature,  by  undisturbed 
meditation,  the  plans  and  conceptions  of  the  hour  of  labour. 
His  home  has  acquired  a  new  charm  ;  for  he  is  become  a 
man  of  thought,  and  feels  and  enjoys  the  peace  and  seclu 
sion  of  that  sacred  retreat;  and  he  carries  thither  the  hon 
est  complacency  which  is  the  companion  of  well-earned 
success.  There,  too,  bright  visions  of  the  future  sphere 
open  upon  him,  and  excite  a  kindly  feeling  towards  those 
who  are  to  share  in  his  prosperity.  Thus  his  mind  and 
heart  expand  togetl^r.  He  has  become  an  intelligent  be 
ing,  and,  while  he  has  learnt  to  esteem  himself,  he  has  also 
learnt  to  live  no  longer  for  himself  alone.  Society  opens 
like  a  new  world  to  him  ,  he  looks  upon  his  fellow-crea 
tures  with  interest  and  sympathy,  and  feels  that  he  has  a 
place  in  their  affections  and  respe*t.  Temptations  assail 
him  in  vain.  He  is  armed  by  high  and  pure  thoughts. 
He  takes  a  wider  view  of  his  relations  with  the  beings 
about  and  above  him.  He  welcomes  every  generous  vir 
tue  that  adorns  and  dignifies  the  human  character.  He 
delights  in  the  exercise  of  reason — he  glories  in  the  con 
sciousness  and  the  hope  oi  mmortality. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  TROSE.  135 


Humorous  Description  of  the   Custom  of    Whitewash' 
ing. — FRAJVCIS  HOPKINSON.* 

MY  wish  is  to  give  you  some  account  of  the  people  of 
these  new  States,  but  I  am  far  from  being  qualified  for  the 
purpose,  having  as  yet  seen  little  more  than  the  cities  of 
New  York  and  Philadelphia.  I  have  discovered  but  few 
national  singularities  among  them.  Their  customs  and 
manners  are  nearly  the  same  with  those  of  England,  which 
they  have  long  been  used  to  copy.  For,'  previous  to  the 
revolution,  the  Americans  were  from  their  infancy  taught 
to  look  up  to  the  English  as  patterns  of  perfection  in  all 
things.  I  have  observed,  however,  one  csutom,  which, 
for  aught  I  know,  is  peculiar  to  this  country :  an  account 
of  it  will  serve  to  fill  up  the  remainder  of  this  sheet,  and 
may  afford  you  some  amusement. 

When  a  young  couple  are  about  to  enter  into  the  matri 
monial  state,  a  never-failing  article  in  the  marriage  treaty 
is,  that  the  lady  shall  have  and  enjoy  the  free  and  unmo 
lested  exercise  of  the  rights  of  whitewashing,  with  all  its 
ceremonials,  privileges  and  appurtenances.  A  young  wo 
man  would  forego  the  most  advantageous  connexion,  and 
even  disappoint  the  warmest  wish  of  her  heart,  rather  than 
resign  the  invaluable  right.  You  would  wonder  what  this 
privilege  of  whitewashing  is  : — I  will  endeavour  to  give 
you  some  idea  of  the  ceremony,  as  1  have  seen  it  per 
formed. 

There  is  no  season  of  the  year,  in  which  the  lady  may 
not  claim  her  privilege,  if  she  pleases  ;  but  the  latter  end 
of  May  is'  most  generally  fixed  upon  for  the  purpose.  The 
attentive  husband  may  judge  by  certain  prognostics  when  the 
storm  is  nigh  at  hand.  When  the  lady  is  unusually  fretful, 
finds  fault  with  the  servants,  is  discontented  with  the  chil 
dren,  and  complains  much  of  the  filthiness  of  every  thing 
about  her  —these  are  signs  which  ought  not  to  be  neglect 
ed  ;  yet  they  are  not  decisive,  as  they  sometimes  come  on 
and  go  off  again  without  producing  any  further  effect.  But 

*  This  piece  tins  beon  incorrectly  ascribed  to  the  pen  of  Dr.  Franklin. 
Ilopkinson  possessed  much  of  that  ease  and  humour,  which  have  ren 
dered  Ihe  writings  of  the  brnier  so  universally  admired.— Eo 


136  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

if,  when  the  husband  rises  in  the  morning,  he  should  ob 
serve  in  the  yard  a  wheelbarrow  with  a  quantity  of  lima 
in  it,  or  should  see  certain  buckets  with  lime  dissolved  in 
water,  there  is  then  no  time  to  be  lost ;  he  immediately 
locks  up  the  apartment  or  closet  where  his  papers  or  his 
private  property  are  kept,  and,  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
betakes  himself  to  flight :  for  a  husband,  however  beloved, 
becomes  a  perfect  nuisance  during  this  season  of  female 
rage  ;  his  authority  is  superseded,  his  commission  is  sus 
pended,  and  the  very  scullion,  who  cleans  the  brasses  in 
the  kitchen,  becomes  of  more  consideration  and  importance 
than  him.  He  has  nothing  for  it  but  to  abdicate,  and  run 
from  an  evil  which  he  can  neither  prevent  nor  mollify. 

The  husband  gone,  the  ceremony  begins.  The  walls 
tre  in  a  few  minutes  stripped  of  their  furniture  ;  paintings, 
prints  and  looking-glasses  lie  in  a  huddled  heap  about  the 
floors ;  the  curtains  are  torn  from  the  testers,  the  beds 
crammed  into  the  windows  ;  chairs  and  tables,  bedsteads 
and  cradles  crowd  the  yard  ;  and  the  garden  fence  bends 
beneath  the  weight  of  carpets,  blankets,  cloth  cloaks,  old 
coats  and  ragged  breeches.  Here  may  be  seen  the  lumber 
of  the  kitchen,  forming  a  dark  and  confused  mass ;  for  the 
foreground  of  the  picture,  gridirons  and  frying-pans,  rusty 
shovels  and  broken  tongs,  spits  and  pots,  and  the  fractured 
remains  of  rush-bottomed  chairs.  There,  a  closet  has  dis 
gorged  its  bowels,  cracked  tumblers,  broken  wine-glasses, 
phials  of  foi  gotten  physic,  papers  of  unknown  powders, 
seeds  and  dried  herbs,  handfuls  of  old  corks,  tops  of  teapots 
and  stoppers  of  departed  decanters  ; — from  the  rag  hole  in 
the  garret  to  the  rat  hole  in  the  cellar,  no  place  escapes  un- 
rummaged.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  day  of  general  doom 
was  come,  and  the  utensils  of  the  house  were  dragged  forth 
10  judgment.  In  this  tempest  the  words  of  Lear  naturally 
present  themselves,  and  might,  with  some  alteration,  be 
made  strictly  applicable  : 


:  Let  the  great  gods, 


That  keep  this  dreadful  pudder  o'er  our  heads, 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.    Tremble,  thou  wretch, 
That  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes 

Unwhipp'd  of  Justice  ! 

"Jlose  pent-up  Guilt, 


Raise  your  concealing  continents,  and  ask 
dreadful  summoners  grace  !" 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  137 

This  ceremony  completed,  arid  the  house  thoroughly 
evacuated,  the  next  operation  is  to  smear  the  walls  and  ceil 
ings  of  every  room  and  closet  with  brushes  dipped  in  a  solu 
tion  of  lime,  called  whitewash  ;  to  pour  buckets  of  water 
over  every  floor,  and  scratch  all  the  partitions  and  wain 
scots  with  rough  brushes  wet  with  soap-suds,  and  dipped 
in  stone-cutter's  sand.  The  windows  by  no  means  escape 
the  general  deluge.  A  servant  scrambles  out  upon  the  pent 
house,  at  the  risk  of  her  neck,  and,  with  a  mug  in  her  hand 
and  a  bucket  within  reach,  she  dashes  away  innumerable 
gallons  of  water  against  the  glass  panes,  to  the  great  an 
noyance  of  passengers  in  the  street. 

1  have  been  told,  that  an  action  at  law  was  once  brought 
against  one  of  these  water-nymphs,  by  a  person  who  had 
a  new  suit  of  clothes  spoiled  by  this  operation  ;  but,  after  a 
long  argument,  it  was  determined  by  the  whole  court,  that 
the  action  would  not  lie,  inasmuch  as  the  defendant  was  in 
the  exercise  of  a  legal  right,  and  not  answerable  for  the 
consequences  ;  and  so  the  poor  gentleman  was  doubly  non 
suited  ;  for  he  lost  not  only  his  suit  of  clothes  but  his  suit 
at  law. 

These  smearirigs  and  scratchings,  washings  and  dashings, 
being  duly  performed,  the  next  ceremony  is  to  cleanse  and 
replace  the  distracted  furniture.  You  may  have  seen  a 
house-raising,  or  a  ship-launch,  when  all  the  hands  within 
reach  are  collected  together ;  recollect,  if  you  can,  the 
hurry,  bustle,  confusion  and  noise  of  such  a  scene,  and  you 
will  have  some  idea  of  this  cleaning  match.  The  misfor 
tune  is,  that  the  sole  object  is  to  make  things  clean ;  it  mat 
ters  not  how  many  useful,  ornamental  or  valuable  articles 
are  mutilated,  or  suffer  death  under  the  operation ;  a  ma 
hogany  chair  and  carved  frame  undergo  the  same  discipline  ; 
they  are  to  be  made  clean  at  all  events  ;  but  their  preserva 
tion  is  not  worthy  of  attention.  For  instance,  a  fine  large 
engraving  is  laid  flat  upon  the  floor ;  smaller  prints  are  piled 
u|  on  it,  and  the  superincumbent  weight  cracks  the  glasses 
of  the  lower  tier ;  but  this  is  of  no  consequence.  A 
valuable  picture  is  placed  leaning  against  the  sharp  cor 
ner  of  a  table ;  others  are  made  to  lean  against  that, 
until  the  pressure  of  the  whole  forces  the  corner  of  the 
table  through  the  canvass  if  the  first.  The  frame  and 
12* 


J38  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

glass  of  a  fine  print  are  t6  be  cleaned  ;  the  spirit  and  oil 
used  on  this  occasion  are  suffered  to  leak  through  and  spoil 
the  engraving;  no  matter,  if  the  glass  is  clean,  and  the 
frame  shine,  it  is  sufficient ;  the  rest  is  not  worthy  of  con 
sideration.  An  able  mathematician  has  made  an  accurate 
calculation  founded  on  long  experience,  and  has  discovered 
that  the  losses  and  destruction  incident  to  two  whitewash 
ings  are  equal  to  one  removal,  and  three  removals  equal  to 
one  fire. 

The  cleaning  frolic  over,  matters  begin  to  resume  their 
pristine  appearance.  The  storm  abates,  and  all  would  be 
well  again,  but  it  is  impossible  that  so  great  a  convulsion, 
in  so  small  a  community,  should  not  produce  some  further 
effects.  For  two  or  three  weeks  after  the  operation,  the 
family  are  usually  afflicted  with  sore  throats  or  sore  eyes, 
occasioned  by  the  caustic  quality  of  the  lime,  or  with 
severe  colds  from  the  exhalations  of  wet  floors  or  damp 
walls. 

I  know  a  gentleman,  who  was  fond  of  accounting  for 
every  thing  in  a  philosophical  way.  He  considers  this, 
which  I  have  called  a  custom,  as  a  real  periodical  disease 
peculiar  to  the  climate.  His  train  of  reasoning  is  ingenious 
and  whimsical,  but  I  am  not  at  leisure  to  give  you  the  detail. 
The  result  was,  that  he  found  the  distemper  to  be  incura 
ble  ;  but,  after  much  study,  he  conceived  he  had  discovered 
a  method  to  divert  the  evil  he  could  not  subdue.  For  this 
purpose  he  caused  a  small  building,  about  twelve  feet 
square,  to  be  erected  in  his  garden,  and  furnished  with 
some  ordinary  chairs  and  tables  ;  and  a  few  prints  of  the 
cheapest  sort  were  hung  against  the  walls.  His  hope  was, 
that,  when  the  whitewashing  frenzy  seized  the  females  of 
liis  family,  they  might  repair  to  this  apartment,  and  scrub 
and  smear  and  scour  to  their  hearts'  content ;  and  so  spend 
the  violence  of  the  disease  in  this  outpost,  while  he  enjoy 
ed  himself  in  quiet  at  head-quarters.  But  the  experiment 
did  not  answer  his  expectation;  it  was  impossible  it  should, 
since  a  principal  part  of  the  gratification  consists  in  the  la 
dy's  having  an  uncontrolled  right  to  torment  her  husband 
at  least  once  a  year,  and  to  turn  him  out  of  doors  and  take 
the  reins  of  government  int«  her  own  hands. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK.  OF   PROSE.  139 

There  is  a  much  better  contrivance  than  this  of  (he 
philosopher,  which  is,  to  cover  the  walls  of  the  house  with 
paper  :  this  is  generally  done  ;  and,  though  it  cannot  abolish, 
it  at  least  shortens,  the  period  of  female  dominion.  The 
paper  is  decorated  with  flowers  of  varrous  fancies,  and  made 
so  ornamental,  that  the  women  have  admitted  the  fashion 
without  perceiving  the  design. 

There  is  also  another  alleviation  of  the  husband's  dis 
tress  ;  he  generally  has  the  privilege  of  a  small  room  or 
closet  for  his  books  jnd  papers,  the  key  of  which  he  is  al 
lowed  to  keep.  This  is  sonsidered  as  a  privileged  place, 
and  stands  like  the  land  of  Goshen  amid  the  plagues  of 
Egypt.  But  then  he  must  be  extremely  cautunu,  and  ever 
on  his  guard ;  for  should  he  inadvertently  go  abroad  and 
leave  the  key  in  his  door,  the  housemaid,  who  is  always 
on  the  watch  for  such  an  opportunity,  immediately  enters 
in  triumph  with  buckets,  brooms  and  brushes  ;  takes  pos 
session  of  the  premises,  and  forthwith  puts  all  his  books  and 
papers  to  right* — to  his  utter  confusion,  and  sometimes 
serious  detriment.  For  instance  : 

A  gentleman  was  sued  by  the  executors  of  a  tradesman, 
in  a  charge  found  against  him  in  the  deceased's  books,  to 
the  amount  of  thirty  pounds.  The  defendant  was  strongly 
impressed  with-  the  idea,  that  he  had  discharged  the  debt 
and  taken  a  receipt ;  but,  as  the  transaction  was  of  long 
standing,  he  knew  not  where  to  find  the  receipt.  The  suit 
went  on  in  course,  and  the  time  approached  when  judgment 
would  be  obtained  against  him.  He  then  sat  seriously 
down  to  examine  a  large  bundle  of  old  papers,  which  he 
had  untied  and  displayed  on  a  table  for  that  purpose.  In 
the  midst  of  his  search,  he  was  suddenly  called  away  on 
business  of  importance ; — he  forgot  to  lock  the  door  of  his 
room.  The  housemaid,  who  had  been  long  looking  out  for 
such  an  opportunity,  immediately  entered  with  the  usual 
implements,  and  with  great  alacrity  fell  to  cleaning  the 
room,  and  putting  things  to  rights.  The  first  object  that 
struck  her  eye  was  the  confused  situation  of  the  papers  on 
the  table  ;  these  were  without  delay  bundled  together  aa 
so  many  dirty  knives  and  forks;  but  in  the  action,  a  small 
piece  of  paper  fell  unnoticed  on  the  floor,  which  happened 
to  be  the  very  receipt  in  question  :  as  it  had  no  very  re- 


140      COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE 

spectable  appearance,  it  was  soon  after  swept  out  with  th« 
common  dirt  of  Ihe  room,  and  carried  in  the  rubbish-pap 
into  the  yard.  The  tradesman  had  neglected  to  enter  the 
credit  in  his  book  ;  the  defendant  could  find  nothing  to  ob 
viate  the  charge,  and  so  judgment  went  against  him  for  tLe 
debt  and  costs.  A  fortnight  after  the  whole  was  settled 
and  the  money  paid,  one  of  the  children  found  the  receipt 
among  the  rubbish  in  the  yard. 

'Hiere  is  another  custom,  peculiar  to  the  city  of  Phila 
delphia,  and  nearly  allied  to  the  former.  I  mean,  that  of 
washing  the  pavement  before  the  doors  every  Saturday 
evening.  I  at  first  took  this  to  be  a  regulation  of  the  police  : 
but,  on  further  inquiry,  find  it  is  a  religious  rite  prepara 
tory  to  the  Sabbath  ;  and  is,  I  believe,  the  only  religious 
rite,  in  which  the  numerous  sectaries  of  this  city  perfectly 
agree.  The  ceremony  begins  about  sunset,  and  continues  till 
about  ten  or  eleven  at  night.  It  is  very  difficult  for  a  stran 
ger  to  walk  the  streets  on  those  evenings  ;  he  runs  a  con 
tinual  risk  of  having  a  bucket  of  dirty  water  thrown  against 
his  legs  ;  but  a  Philadelphian  born  is  so  much  accustomed 
to  the  danger,  that  he  avoids  it  with  surprising  dexterity. 
It  is  from  this  circumstance  that  a  Philadelphian  may  be 
known  any  where  by  his  gait.  The  streets  of  New  York 
are  paved  with  rough  stones ;  these  indeed  are  not  washed, 
but  the  dirt  is  so  thoroughly  swept  from  before  the  doors, 
that  the  stones  stand  up  sharp  and  prominent,  to  the  great 
inconvenience  of  those  who  are  not  accustomed  to  so  rough 
a  path.  But  habit  reconciles  every  thing.  It  is  diverting 
enough  to  see  a  Philadelphian  at  New  York ,  he  walks 
the  streets  with  as  much  painful  caution  as  if  his  toes  were 
covered  with  corns,  or  his  feet  lamed  with  the  gout ;  while 
a  New  Yorker,  as  little  approving  the  plain  masonry  of 
Philadelphia,  shuffles  along  the  pavement  like  a  parrot  on 
a  mahogany  table. 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  that  the  ablutions  I  have  men 
tioned  are  attended  with  no  small  inconvenience  ;  but  the 
women  would  not  be  induced,  on  any  consideration,  to  resign 
their  privilege.  Notwithstanding  this,  I  can  give  you  the 
strongest  assurances  that  the  women  of  America  make  the 
most  faithful  wives  and  the  most  attentive  mothers  in  the 
world  ;  and  I  am  sure  you  will  join  me  in  opinion  that 


COMMON-PLACE    tOOK  OF  PROSE.  141 

if  a  married  man  is  made  miserable  only  one  week  in  a 
whole  year,  he  will  have  no  great  cause  to  complain  of  the 
matrimonial  bond. 


May  you  die  among  your  ffindred. — GREENWOOD. 

IT  is  a  sad  thing  to  feel  that  we  must  die  away  from  our 
home.  Tell  not  the  invalid  who  is  yearning  after  his  dis 
tant  country,  that  the  atmosphere  around  him  is  soft ;  that 
the  gales  are  filled  with  balm,  and  the  flowers  are  spring 
ing  from  the  green  earth  ; — he  knows  that  the  softest  air 
to  his  heart  would  be  the  air  which  hangs  over  his  native 
land  ;  that  more  grateful  than  all  the  gales  of  the  south, 
would  breathe  the  low  whispers  of  anxious  affection ;  that 
the  very  icicles  clinging  to  his  own  eaves,  and  the  snow 
beating  against  his  own  windows,  would  be  far  more  pleas 
ant  to  his  eyes,  than  the  bloom  and  verdure  which  only 
more  forcibly  remind  him  how  far  he  is  from  that  one  spot 
which  is  dearer  to  him  than  the  world  beside.  He  may, 
indeed,  find  estimable  friends,  who  will  do  all  in  their  pow 
er  to  promote  his  comfort  and  assuage  his  pains ;  but  they 
cannot  supply  the  place  of  the  long  known  and  long  loved  ; 
they  cannot  read  as  in  a  book  the  mute  language  of  his 
face ;  they  have  not  learned  to  wait  upon  his  habits,  and 
anticipate  his  wants,  and  he  has  not  learned  to  communi 
cate,  without  hesitation,  all  his  wishes,  impressions,  and 
thoughts,  to  them.  He  feels  that  he  is  a  stranger  ;  and  a 
more  desolate  feeling  than  that  could  not  visit  his  soul. — 
How  much  is  expressed  by  that  form  of  oriental  benedic 
tion,  May  you  die  among  your  kindred  ! 


Description  of  a  Death  Scene. — Miss  FRANCIS. 

GRACE,  agitated  by  these  events,  and  her  slight  form 
daily  becoming  more  shadowy,  seemed  like  a  celestial  spir 
it,  which,  having  performed  its  mission  on  earth,  melts  Into 
t  misty  wreath,  then  disappears  forever.  Hers  had  alwayi 


142  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK.  OF  PKOSE. 

been  the  kind  of  beauty  that  is  eloquence,  though  it  speaki 
not.  The  love  she  inspired  was  like  that  of  some  fair  infant, 
which  we  would  fain  clasp  to  our  hearts  in  its  guileless  beau 
ty  ;  and  when  it  repays  our  fondness  with  a  cherub  smile,  its 
angelic  influence  rouses  all  that  there  is  of  heaven  within 
he  soul.  Deep  compassion  was  now  added  to  these  emotions; 
and  wherever  she  moved,  the  eye  of  pity  greeted  her,  as  it 
would  some  wounded  bird,  nestling  to  the  heart  in  its  timid 
loveliness.  Every  one  who  knew  her  felt  the  influence 
of  her  exceeding  purity  and  deep  pathos  of  character  ;  but 
very  few  had  penetrated  into  its  recesses,  and  discovered 
its  hidden  treasures.  Melody  was  there,  but  it  was  too 
plaintive,  too  delicate  in  its  combination,  to  be  produced  by 
an  unskilful  hand.  The  coarsest  minds  felt  its  witching  ef 
fect,  though  they  could  not  define  its  origin ; — like  the  ser 
vant  mentioned  by  Addison,  who  drew  the  bow  across  every 
string  of  her  master's  violin,  and  then  complained  that  she 
could  not,  for  her  life,  find  where  the  tune  was  secreted. 

Souls  of  this  fine  mould  keep  the  fountain  of  love  sealed 
deep  within  its  caverns  ;  and  to  one  only  is  access  ever 
granted.  Miss  Osborne's  affection  had  been  tranquil  on 
the  surface, — but  it  was  as  deep  as  it  was  pure.  It  WAS  a 
pool  which  had  granted  its  healing  influence  to  one,  but 
could  never  repeat  the  miracle,  though  an  angel  should 
trouble  its  waters.  Assuredly  he  that  could  mix  death  in 
the  cup  of  love  which  he  offered  to  one  so  young,  so  fair, 
and  so  true,. was  guilty  as  the  priest  who  administered 
poison  in  the  holy  eucharist. 

,  Lucretia,  now  an  inmate  of  the  family,  read  to  her,  sup 
ported  her  across  the  chamber,  and  watched  her  brief,  gen 
tle  slumbers  with  an  intense  interest,  painfully  tinged  with 
self-reproach.  She  was  the  cause  of  this  premature  de 
cay, — innocent,  indeed,  but  still  the  cause.  Under  such 
circumstances,  the  conscience  is  morbid  in  its  sensibility, — 
unreasonable  in  its  acuteness ;  and  the  smiles  and  forgive 
ness  of  those  we  have  injured,  tear  and  scorch  it  like  burn 
ing  pincers.  Yet  there  was  one  who  suffered  even  more 
than  Lucreti? , — though  he  was  never  conscious  of  giving 
one  moment's  pain  to  the  object  of  his  earliest  affection. 
During  the  winter,  every  leisure  moment  which  Doctor 
Willard's  numerous  avocations  allowed  him,  was  spent  in 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  143 

Miss  Osborne'a  sick  chamber  ;  and  every  tone,  every  look 
of  his  went  to  her  heart  with  a  thrilling  expression,  which 
seemed  to  say,  "  Would  I  could  die  for  thee  !  Oh  !  would 
to  God  I  could  die  for  thee  !" 

Thus  pillowed  on  the  arm  of  Friendship,  and  watched 
over  by  the  eye  of  Love,  Grace  languidly  awaited  the  re 
turn  of  spring ;  and,  when  May  did  arrive,  wasted  as  she 
was,  she  seemed  to  enjoy  its  pure  breath  and  sunny  smile. 
Alas !  that  the  month,  whiah  dances  around  the  flowery 
earth  with  such  mirthful  step  and  beaming  glance,  should 
call  so  many  victims  of  consumption  to  their  last  home  ! 
Towards  the  close  of  this  delightful  season,  the  invalid, 
bolstered  in  her  chair,  and  surrounded  by  her  affectionate 
family,  was  seated  at  the  window,  watching  the  declining 
sun.  There  was  deep  silence  for  a  long  while  ; — as  if  her 
friends  fuarcd  fhat  a  breath  might  scare  the  flitting  soul 
from  its  earthly  habitation.  Henry  and  Lucretia  sat  on 
either  side,  pressing  her  hands  in  mournful  tenderness  ; 
Doctor  Willard  leaned  over  her  chair  and  looked  up  to  the 
unclouded  sky,  as  if  he  reproached  it  for  mocking  him  with 
brightness  ;  and  her  father  watched  the  hectic  flush  upon 
her  cheek  with  the  firmness  of  Abraham,  when  he  offered 
his  only  son  upon  the  altar.  Oh  !  how  would  the  heart 
of  that  aged  sufferer  have  rejoiced  within  him,  could  he  too 
have  exchanged  the  victim  ! 

She  had  asked  Lucretia  to  place  Somerville's  rose  on  the 
window  beside  her.  One  solitary  blossom  was  on  it ;  and 
she  reached  forth  her  weak  hand  to  pluck  it ;  but  its 
leaves  scattered  beneath  her  trembling  touch.  She  looked 
up  to  Lucretia  with  an  expression,  which  her  friend  could 
never  forget, — and  one  cold  tear  slowly  glided  down  her 
pallid  cheek.  Gently  as  a  mother  kisses  her  sleeping  babe, 
Doctor  Willard  brushed  it  away  ;  and,  turning  hastily  to 
conceal  his  quivering  lip,  he  clasped  'Henry's  hand  with 
convulsive  energy  as  he  whispered,  "  Oh  !  God  of  mer 
cies,  how  willingly  would  I  have  wiped  away  all  tears  from 
her  eyes  T ' 

There  is  something  peculiarly  impressive  in  manly  grief. 
The  eye  of  woman  overflows  as  readily  as  her  heart ;  but 
when  waters  gush  from  the  rock,  we  feel  that  they  ar« 
extorted  by  no  gentle  blow 


L. 


144  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

The  invalid  looked  at  him  with  affectionate  regret,  as  if 
she  thought  it  a  crime  not  to  love  such  endearing  kindness; 
and  every  one  present  made  a  powerful  effort  to  suppress 
painful,  suffocating  emotion. — Lucretia  had  a  bunch  of  pur 
ple  violets  fastened  in  her  girdle, — and  with  a  forced  smile 
she  placed  them  in  the  hands  of  her  dying  friend.  She 
looked  at  them  a  moment  with  a  sort  of  abstracted  atten 
tion,  and  an  expression  strangely  unearthly,  as  she  said, 
"  I  have  thought  that  wild  flowers  might  be  the  alphabet 
of  angels, — whereby  they  write  on  hills  and  fields  myste 
rious  truths,  which  it  is  not  given  our  fallen  nature  to  un 
derstand.  What  think  you,  dear  father  .'" 

"  I  think,  my  beloved  child,  that  the  truths  we  do  com 
prehend  are  enough  to  support  us  through  all  our  trials." 

The  confidence  of  the  Christian  was  strong  within  hiro, 
when  he  spoke  ;  but  he  looked  on  his  dying  daughter,  tht» 
only  image  of  a  wife  dearly  beloved, — and  nature  prevail 
ed.  He  covered  his  eyes,  and  shook  his  white  hairs  mourn 
fully,  as  he  added,  "  God  in  his  mercy  grant,  that  we  may 
find  them  sufficient  in  this  dreadful  struggle."  All  was 
again  still, — still,  in  that  chamber  of  death.  The  bird? 
sung  as  sweetly  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  discord 
in  the  habitations  of  man  ;  and  the  blue  sky  was  as  bright 
as  if  earth  were  a  stranger  to  ruin,  and  the  human  soul 
knew  not  of  desolation.  Twilight  advanced,  unmindful 
that  weeping  eyes  watched  her  majestic  and  varied  beauty. 
The  silvery  clouds,  that  composed  her  train,  were  fast  sink 
ing  into  a  gorgeous  column  of  gold  and  purple.  It  seemed 
as  if  celestial  spirits  were  hovering  around  their  mighty 
pavilion  of  light,  and  pressing  the  verge  of  the  horizon 
with  their  glittering  sandals. 

Amid  the  rich  variegated  heaps  of  vapour,  was  one  spot 
of  clear  bright  cerulean.  The  deeply  coloured  and  heavy 
masses  that  surrounded  it,  gave  it  the  effect  of  distaixe; 
so  that  it  seemed  like  a  portion  of  the  inner  heaven.  Gi's.ce 
fixed  her  earnest  gaze  upon  it,  as  a  weary  traveller  does 
upon  an  Oasis  in  the  desert.  That  awful  lustre  which  the 
soul  beams  forth  at  its  parting  was  in  her  eye,  as  she  said, 
"  I  could  almost  fancy  there  are  happy  faces  looking  down 
to  welcome  me." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  145 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Lucretia  iu  a  subdued  tone. 
"  It  is  such  a  sky  as  you  loved  to  look  upon,  dear  Grace." 

"  It  is  such  an  one  as  we  loved,"  she  answered.  "  Thero 
was  a  time  when  it  would  have  made  me  very  happy ;  but 
—my  thoughts  are  now  beyond  it." 

Her  voice  grew  faint,  and  there  was  a  quick  ga^p, — as 
if  the  rush  of  memory  was  too  powerful  for  her  weak 
frame 

Doctor  Willard  hastily  prepared  a  cordial,  and  offered 
it  to  her  lips.  Those  lips  were  white  and  motionless  ;  her 
long,  fair  eyelashes  drooped,  but  trembled  not. — He  placed 
his  hand  on  her  side  ; — the  heart  that  had  loved  so  well, 
and  endured  so  much,  throbbed  its  last. 


The  Rose. — MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 

I  SAW  a  rose  perfect  in  beauty ;  it  rested  gracefully 
upon  its  stalk,  and  its  perfume  filled  the  air.  Many  stopped 
to  gaze  upon  it,  many  bowed  to  taste  its  fragrance,  and  its 
owner  hung  over  it  with  delight.  I  passed  it  again,  and  be 
hold  it  was  gone — its  stem  was  leafless — its  root  had  with 
ered  ;  the  enclosure  which  surrounded  it  was  broken  down. 
The  spoiler  had  been  there  ;  he  saw  that  many  admired  it ; 
h<  knew  it  was  dear  to  him  who  planted  it,  and  beside  it  he 
had  no  other  plant  to  love.  Yet  he  snatched  it  secretly 
from  the  hand  that  cherished  it ;  he  wore  k  on  his  bosom 
till  it  hung  its  head  and  faded,  and,  when  he  saw  that  its 
ijlory  was  departed,  he  flung  it  rudely  away.  But  it  left  a 
thorn  in  his  bosom,  and  vainly  did  he  seek  to  extract  it; 
/oi  now  it  pierces  the  spoiler,  even  in  his  hour  of  mirth. 
And  when  I  saw  that  no  man,  who  had  loved  the  beaut} 
fi  the  rose,  gathered  again  its  scattered  leaves,  or  bound 
up  the  stalk  which  the  hands  of  violence  had  broken,  1 
looked  earnestly  at  the  spot  where  it  grew,  and  my  soul 
received  iustruction.  And  I  said,  Let  her  who  is  full 
of  beauty  and  admiration,  sitting  like  the  queen  of  flow 
ers  in  majesty  among  the  daughters  of  women,  let  her 
•watch  lest  vanity  enter  her  heart,  beguiling  her  to  rest 
13 


146  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

proudly  upon  her  own  strength ;  let  her  remember  that 
she  standeth  upon  slippery  places,  "  and  be  not  high 
inindod,  but  fear  " 


Influence  of  Female  Character. — THACHER. 

THE  influence  of  woman  on  the  intellectual  character 
of  the  community,  may  not  seem  so  great  and  obvious  as 
upon  its  civilization  and  manners.  One  reason  is,  that 
hitherto  such  influence  has  seldom  been  exerted  in  the 
most  direct  way  of  gaining  celebrity — the  writing  of  books. 
In  our  own  age,  indeed,  this  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the 
case,  and,  if  we  should  inquire  for  those  persons,  whose 
writings  for  the  last  half  century  have  produced  the  most 
practical  and  enduring  effects,  prejudice  itself  must  con 
fess,  that  the  name  of  more  than  one  illustrious  woman 
would  adorn  the  catalogue. 

That  the  society  and  influence  of  woman  has  often  prompt 
ed  and  refined  the  efforts  of  genius,  may  be  granted  by  the 
most  zealous  advocate  for  the  superiority  of  our  sex.  From 
the  hallowed  retreats  of  the  Port  Royal  issued  the  immor 
tal  writings  of  Pascal,  Nicole  and  Racine  ;  and  the  heav 
enly  muse  of  Cowper  had  its  inspiration  nourished  almost 
exclusively  in  the  society  of  females.  But,  whatever  may 
be  thought  of  the  influence-  of  the  sex  in  these  particu 
lars,  there  is  one  point  of  view  in  which  it  is  undeniably 
great  and  important.  The  mother  of  your  children  is 
necessarily  their  first  instructer.  It  is  her  task  to  watch 
over  and  assist  their  dawning  faculties  in  their  first  expan 
sion.  And  can  it  be  of  light  importance  in  what  manlier 
this  task  is  performed  ?  Will  it  have  no  influence  on  the 
future  mental  character  of  the  child,  whether  the  first 
lights,  which  enter  its  understanding,  are  received  from 
wisdom  or  folly  ?  Are  there  no  bad  mental  habits,  no  last 
ing  biases,  no  dangerous  associations,  no  deep-seated  pre 
judices,  which  can  be  communicated  from  the  mother,  the 
fondest  object  of  the  affection  and  veneration  of  .the  child  ? 
In  fine,  do  the  opinions  of  the  age  take  no  direction  and 
ao  colouring  from  the  modes  of  thinking  which  prevail 


COMMON- PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  147 

among  one  half  of  the  minds  that  exist  on  earth  ?  Unless 
you  are  willing  to  say  that  an  incalculably  great  amount 
of  mental  power  is  utterly  wasted  and  thrown  away ;  or 
else,  with  a  Turkish  arrogance  and  brutality,  to  deny  that 
woman  shares  with  you  in  the  possession  of  a  reasoning 
and  immortal  mind ;  you  jnust  acknowledge  the  vast  impor 
tance  of  the  influence,  which  the  female  sex  exerts  on  the 
intellectual  character  of  the  community. 

But  it  is  in  its  moral  effects  on  the  mind  and  the  heart 
of  man,  that  the  influence  of  woman  is  most  powerful  and 
important.  In  the  diversity  of  tastes,  habits,  inclinations 
and  pursuits  of  the  two  sexes,  is  found  a  most  beneficent 
provision  for  controlling  the  force  and  extravagance  of  hu 
man  passions.  The  objects  which  most  strongly  seize  and 
stimulate  the  mind  of  man,  rarely  act  at  the  same  time 
and  with  equal  power  on  the  mind  of  woman.  While  he 
delights  in  enterprise  and  action,  and  the  exercise  of  the 
stronger  energies  of  the  soul,  she  is  led  to  engage  in  calmer 
pursuits,  and  seek  for  gentler  enjoyments.  While  he  is 
summoned  into  the  wide  and  busy  theatre  of  a  contentious 
world,  where  the  love  of  power  and  the  love  of  gain,  in 
all  their  innumerable  forms,  occupy  and  tyrannise  over  the 
soul,  she  is  walking  in  a  more  peaceful  sphere  ;  and  though 
I  say  not  that  these  passions  are  always  unfelt  by  her,  ye 
they  lead  her  to  the  pursuit  of  very  different  objects.  The 
current,  if  it  draws  its  waters  in  both  from  the  same  source, 
moves  with  her  not  only  in  a  narrower  stream,  and  less 
impetuous  tide,  but  sets  also  in  a  different  direction.  Hence 
it  is  that  the  influence  of  the  society  of  woman  is  almost 
always  to  soften  the  violence  of  those  impulses,  which 
would  otherwise  act  with  so  constant  and  fatal  an  influ 
ence  on  the  soul  of  man.  The  domestic  fireside  is  the 
great  guardian  of  society  against  the  excesses  of  human 
passions.  When  man,  after  his  intercourse  with  the  world, 
where,  alas!  he  finds  so  much  to  inflame  him  with  a  fe 
verous  anxiety  for  wealth"  and  distinction,  retires  at  even 
ing  to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  he  finds  there  a  repose  for 
his  tormenting  cares.  He  finds  something  to  bring  him 
back  to  human  sympathies.  The  tenderness  of  his  wife 
and  the  caresses  of  his  children  introduce  a  new  train  of 
softer  thoughts  and  gentler  feelings.  He  is  remin-led  of 


148  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

what  constitutes  the  real  felicity  of  man ;  and,  while  hil 
heart  expands  itself  to  the  influence  of  the  simple  and  in 
timate  delights  of  the  domestic  circle,  the  demons  of  ava 
rice  and  ambition,  if  not  exorcised  from  his  breast,  at  least 
for  a  time,  relax  their  grasp.  How  deplorable  would  be  the 
consequence  if  all  these  were  reversed ;  and  woman,  in 
stead  of  checking  the  violence  of  these  passions,  were  to 
employ  her  blandishments  and  charms  to  add  fuel  to  their 
rage  !  How  much  wider  would  become  the  empire  of 
guilt !  What  a  portentous  and  intolerable  amount  would 
be  added  to  the  sum  of  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  the  hu 
man  race  ! 

But  the  influence  of  the  female  character  on  the  virtue 
of  man,  is  not  seen  merely  in  restraining  and  softening  the 
violence  of  human  passions.  ,  To  her  is  mainly  committed 
the  task  of  pouring  into  the  opening  mind  of  infancy  its 
first  impressions  of  duty,  and  of  stamping  on  its  susceptible 
heart  the  first  image  of  its  God.  Who  will  not  confess  the 
influence  of  a  mother  in  forming  the  heart  of  a  child  ?  What 
man  is  there  who  cannot  trace  the  origin  of  many  of  the  best 
maxims  of  his  life  to  the  lips  of  her  who  gave  him  birth  ? 
How  wide,  how  lasting,  how  sacred  is  that  part  of  woman's 
influence  !  Who  that  thinks  of  it,  who  that  ascribes  any 
moral  effect  to  education,  who  that  believes  tha:  any  good 
may  be  produced,  or  any  evil  prevented  by  it  can  need 
any  arguments  to  prove  the  importance  of  the  character 
and  capacity  of  her,  who  gives  its  earliest  bias  to  the  in 
fant  mind  ? 

There  is  yet  another  mode,  by  which  woman  may  ex 
ert  a  powerful  influence  on  the  virtue  of  a  community.  It 
rests  with  her,  in  a  pre-eminent  degree,  to  give  tone  and 
elevation  to  the  moral  character  of  the  age,  by  deciding 
the  degree  of  virtue  that  shall  be  necessary  to  afford  a 
passport  to  her  society.  The  extent  of  this  influence  has 
perhaps  never  been  fully  tried ;  and,  if  the  character  of 
our  sex  is  not  better,  it  is  to  be^onfessed  that  it  is  in  no 
trifling  degree  to  be  ascribed  to  the  fault  of  yours.  If  all 
the  favour  of  woman  were  given  only  to  the  good ;  if  it 
were  known  that  the  charms  and  attractions  of  beauty,  and 
wisdom,  and  wit,  were  reserved  only  for  the  pure ;  if,  in 
»ne  word,  something  of  a  similar  rigour  were  exerted  to 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE.  149 

exclude  the  profligate  and  abandoned  of  our  sex  from  your 
society,  as  is  shown  to  those,  who  have  fallen  from  virtue 
in  your  own, — how  much  would  be  done  to  reenforce  the 
motives  to  moral  purity  among  us,  and  impress  on  the 
minds  of  all  a  reverence  for  the  sanctity  and  obligations  of 
virtue  ! 

The  influence  of  woman  on  the  moral  sentiments  of  so 
ciety  is  intimately  connected  with  her  influence  on  its  re 
ligious  character ;  for  religion  and  a  pure  and  elevated 
morality  must  ever  stand  in  the  relation  to  each  other  of 
effect  and  cause.  The  heart  of  woman  is  formed  for  the 
abode  of  Christian  truth  ;  and  for  reasons  alike  honourable 
to  her  character  and  to  that  of  the  Gospel.  From  the  na 
ture  of  Christianity  this  must  be  so.  The  foundation  of 
evangelical  religion  is  laid  in  a  deep  and  constant  sense  of 
the  invisible  presence,  providence  and  influence  of  an  in 
visible  Spirit,  who  claims  the  adoration,  reverence,  grati 
tude  and  love  of  his  creatures.  By  man,  busied  as  he  is 
in  the  cares,  and  absorbed  in  the  pursuits  of  the  world,  this 
great  truth  is,  alas  !  too  often  and  too  easily  forgotten  and 
disregarded  ;  while  woman,  less  engrossed  by  occupation, 
more  "  at  leisure  to  be  good,"  led  often  by  her  duties  to 
retirement,  at  a  distance  from  many  temptations,  and  endued 
with  an  imagination  more  easily  excited  and  raised  than 
man's,  is  better  prepared  to  admit  and  cherish,  and  be 
affected  by,  this  solemn  and  glorious  acknowledgment  of  a 
God. 

Again  ;  the  Gospel  reveals  to  us  a  Saviour,  invested  with 
little  of  that  briHiant  and  dazzling  glory,  with  which  con 
quest  and  success  would  array  him  in  the  eyes  of  proud 
and  aspiring  man  ;  but  rather  as  a  meek  and  magnanimous 
sufferer,  clothed  in  all  the  mild  and  passive  graces,  all  the 
sympathy  with  human  wo,  all  the  compassion  for  human 
frailty,  all  the  benevolent  interest  inhuman  welfare,  which 
the  heart  of  woman  is  formed  to  love ;  together  with  all 
that  solemn  and  supernatural  dignity,  which  the  heart  of 
woman  is  formed  peculiarly  to  feel  and  to  reverence.  To 
obey  the  commands,  and  aspire  to  imitate  the  peculiar  vir 
tues,  of  such  a  being,  must  always  be  more  natural  and 
easy  for  her  *han  for  man. 
13  * 


150  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

So,  too,  it  is  with  that  future  life  which  the  Gospel  un 
veils,  where  all  that  is  dark  and  doubtful  iu  this  shall  b« 
explained ;  where  penitence  shall  be  forgiven,  aud  faith 
and  virtue  accepted ;  where  the  tear  of  sorrow  snail  be 
dried,  the  wounded  bosom  of  bereavement  be  healed  ; 
where  love  and  joy  shall  be  unclouded  and  immortal.  To 
these  high  and  holy  visions  of  faith  I  trust  that  man  is  not 
always  insensible  ;  but  the  superior  sensibility  of  woman, 
as  it  makes  her  feel  more  deeply  the  emptiness  and  wants 
of  human  existence  here,  so  it  makes  her  welcome  with 
more  deep  and  ardent  emotions  the  glad  tidings  of  salvation, 
the  thought  of  communion  with  God,  the  hope  of  the  puri 
ty,  happiness  and  peace  of  another  and  a  better  would. 

In  this  peculiar  susceptibility  of  religion  in  the  female 
character,  who  does  not  discern  a  proof  of  the  benignant 
care  of  Heaven 'of  the  best  interest  of  man  ?  How  wise 
it  is,  that  she,  whose  instructions  and  example  must  have 
so  powerful  an  influence  on  the  infant  mind,  should  be 
formed  to  own  and  cherish  the  most  sublime  and  important 
of  truths  !  The  vestal  flame  of  piety,  lighted  up  by  Heaven 
in  the  breast  of  woman,  diffuses  its  light  and  warmth  over 
the  world  ; — and  dark  would  be  the  world  if  it  should  ever 
be  extinguished  and  lost. 


Character  of  James  Monroe* — WIRT. 

IN  his  stature,  he  is  about  the  middle  height  of  men, 
rather  firmly  set,  with  nothing  further  remarkable  in  his 
person,  except  his  muscular  compactness,  and  apparent 
ability  to  endure  labour.  His  countenance,  when  grave, 
has  rather  the  expression  of  sternness  and  irascibility :  a 
smile,  however,  (and  a  smile  is  not  unusual  with  him  in  a 
social  circle,)  lights  it  up  to  very  high  advantage,  and  gives 
it  a  most  impressive  and  engaging  air  of  suavity  and  be 
nevolence.  Judging  merely  from  his  countenance,  he  is 
between  the  ages  of  forty-five  and  fifty  years.  His  dress 


*  From  "  Letters  of  the  British  Spy,"  first  published  in  1806. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  15 i 

and  personal  appearance  are  those  of  a  plain  and  modes; 
gentleman.  He  is  a  man  of  soft,  polite,  and  even  assidu 
ous  attentions  ;  but  these,  although  they  are  always  well 
timed,  judicious,  and  evidently  the  offspring  of  an  obliging 
and  philanthropic  temper,  are  never  performed  with  the 
striking  and  captivating  graces  of  a  Marlborough  or  a 
Bohngbroke.  To  be  plain,  there  is  often  in  his  manner  an 
inartificial  and  even  an  awkward  simplicity,  which,  while 
it  provokes  the  smile  of  a  more  polished  person,  forces  him 
to  the  opinion,  that  Mr.  Monroe  is  a  man  of  a  most  sin 
cere  and  artless  soul. 

Nature  has  given  him  a  mind  neither  rapid  nor  rich ; 
and,  therefore,  he  cannot  shine  on  a  subject  which  is  en 
tirely  new  to  him.  But,  to  compensate  him  for  this,  he  is 
endued  with  a  spirit  of  restless  and  generous  emulation,  a 
judgment  solid,  strong  and  clear,  and  a  habit  of  application, 
which  no  difficulties  can  shake,  no  labours  tire.  With 
these  aids,  simply,  he  has  qualified  himself  for  the  first 
honours  of  this  country ;  and  presents  a  most  happy  illus 
tration  of  the  truth  of  the  maxim,  Quisque,  SUCK  fortunes 
faber.  For  his  emulation  has  urged  him  to  perpetual  and 
unremitting  inquiry  •  his  patient  and  unwearied  industry 
has  concentrated  before  him  all  the  lights  which  others 
have  thrown  on  the  subjects  of  his  consideration,  together 
with  all  those  which  his  own  mind,  by  repeated  efforts,  is 
enabled  to  strike  ;  while  his  sober,  steady  and  faithful  judg 
ment  has  saved  him  from  the  common  error  of  more  quick 
and  brilliant  geniuses — the  too  hasty  adoption  of  specious, 
but  false  conclusions. 

These  qualities  render  him  a  safe  and  an  able  counsel 
lor  .  And  by  their  constant  exertion  he  has  amassed  a  store 
of  knowledge,  which,  having  passed  seven  times  through 
the  crucible,  is  almost  as  highly  corrected  as  human  knowl 
edge  can  be  ;  and  which  certainly  may  be  much  more  safe* 
lj-  relied  on,  than  the  spontaneous  and  luxuriant  growth 
of  a  more  fertile,  but  less  chastened  mind, — "  a  wild,  where 
weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous  shoot."  Having  engaged 
very  early,  first  in  the  life  of  a  soldier,  then  of  a  statesman, 
then  of  a  laborious  practitioner  of  the  law,  and  finally 
again  of  a  politician,  his  intellectual  operations  have  been 
almost  entirely  confined  to  juridical  and  political  topics 


152  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

Indeed,  it  is  easy  to  perceive,  that  the  mind  of  a  man  en 
gaged  in  so  active  a  life  must  possess  more  native  supple 
ness,  versatility  and  vigour,  than  that  of  Mr.  Monroe,  to  b« 
able  to  make  an  advantageous  tour  of  the  sciences  in  the 
rare  interval  of  importunate  duties.  It  is  possible  tl.at  the 
early  habit  of  contemplating  subjects  as  expanded  as  the 
earth  itself,  with  all  the  relative  interests  of  the  great  na 
tions  thereof,  may  have  inspired  him  with  an  indifference, 
perhaps  an  inaptitude,  for  mere  points  of  literature.  Al 
gernon  Sydney  has  said,  that  he  deems  all  studies  unwor 
thy  the  serious  regard  of  a  man,  except  the  study  of  the 
principles  of  just  government ;  and  Mr.  Monroe,  perhaps, 
concurs  with  our  countryman  in  this  as  well  as  in  his  other 
principles.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  occasion,  his 
acquaintance  with  the  fine  arts  is  certainly  very  limited 
and  superficial ;  but,  making  allowances  for  his  bias  towards 
republicanism,  he  is  a  profound  and  even  an  eloquent  states 
man.  , 

Knowing  him  to  be  attached  to  that  political  party,  who, 
by  their  opponents,  are  sometimes  called  democrats,  some 
times  jacobins ;  and  aware  also  that  he  was  a  man  of  warm 
and  even  ardent  temper,  I  dreaded  much,  when  1  first  en 
tered  his  company,  that  I  should  have  been  shocked  and 
disgusted  with  the  narrow,  virulent,  and  rancorous  invec 
tives  of  party  animosity.  How  agreeably,-  how  delightfully, 
was  I  disappointed  !  Not  one  sentiment  of  intolerance 
polluted  his  lips.  On  the  contrary,  whether  they  be  the 
offspring  of  rational  induction,  of  the  habit  of  surveying 
men  and  things  on  a  great  scale,  of  native  magnanimity, 
or  Oi  a  combination  of  all  those  causes,  his  principles,  as 
far  as  they  were  exhibited  to  me,  were  forbearing,  liberal, 
widely  extended,  and  great.  As  the  elevated  ground 
which  he  already  holds  has  been  gained  merely  by  the 
.lint  of  application ;  as  every  new  step  which  he  mounts 
oecomes  a  mean  of  increasing  his  powers  still  further,  by 
opening  a  wider  horizon  to  his  view,  and  thus  stimulating 
his  enterprise  afresh,  re-invigorating  his  habits,  multiplying 
the  materials,  and  extending  the  range,  of  his  knowledge, 
it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise  to  me,  if  before  his  death 
the  world  should  see  him  at  the  head  of  the  American  ad 
ministration.  So  much  for  the  governor  of  the  common- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE.  153 

wealth  of  Virginia, — a  living,  an  honorable,  an  illustrious 
monument  of  self-created  eminence,  worth  and  greatness1 


The  Stout  Gentleman.     A  Stage-coach  Romance. — 
IRVING 

IT  was  a  rainy  Sunday  in  the  gloomy  month  of  Novem 
ber.  I  had  been  detained,  in  the  course  of  a  journey,  by 
a  slight  indisposition,  from  which  I  was  recovering ;  but  I 
was  still  feverish,  and  was  obliged  to  keep  within  doors 
all  day,  in  an  inn  of  the  small  town  of  Derby.  A  wet 
Sunday  in  a  coufttry  inn — whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  ex 
perience  one  can  alone  judge  of  my  situation.  The  rain 
pattered  against  the  casements  ;  the  bells  tolled  for  church 
with  a  melancholy  sound.  I  went  to  the  windows  in  quest 
of  something  to  amuse  the  eye  ;  bu-t  it  seemed  as  if  I  had 
been  placed  completely  out  of  the  reach  of  all  amusement. 
The  windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out  among  tiled  roofs 
and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of  my  sitting-room 
commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stable-yard.  I  know  of 
nothing  more  calculated  to  make  a  man  sick  of  this  world 
than  a  stable-yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The  place  was  littere^ 
with  straw,  that  had  been  kicked  about  by  travellers  ar  . 
stable-hoys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant  pool  of  watei/ 
surrounding  an  island  of  muck ;  there  were  several  half 
drowned  fowls,  crowded  together  under  a  cart,  among 
which  was  a  miserable  crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of 
all  life.-md  spirit,  his  drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into 
a  single  feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled  from  his 
back ;  near  the  cart  was  a  half-dozing  cow,  chewing  the 
cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be  rained  on,  with  wreaths 
of  vapour  rising  from  her  reeking  hide  ;  a  wall-eyed  horse., 
tired  of  the  loneliness  of  the  stable,  was  poking  his  spec 
tral  head  out  of  a  window,  with  the  rain  dripping  on  it 
from  the  eaves  ;  an  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a  dog-house 
hard  by,  uttered  something  every  now  and  then  between 
a  bark  and  a  yelp ;  a  drab  of  a  kitchen  wench  tramped 
backwards  and  forwards  through  the  yard  in  pattens,  look 
ing  as  sulky  as  the  weather  itself;  every  thing,  in  short 


J54  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

was  comfortless  and  forlorn,  excepting  a  crew  of  hard-drink* 
mg  ducks,  assembled  like  boon  companions  round  a  puddle, 
and  making  a  riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I  was  lonely  and  listless,  and  wanted  amusement.  My 
room  soon  became  insupportable  :  I  abandoned  it,  and  sought 
what  is  technically  called  the  travellers'  room.  This  is  a 
public  room  set  apart  at  most  inns  for  the  accommodation 
of  a  class  of  wayfarers,  called  travellers,  or  riders, — a  kind 
of  commercial  knights-errant,  who  are  incessantly  scour 
ing  the  kingdom  in  gigs,  on  horseback,  or  by  coach.  They 
are  the  only  successors  that  I  know  of,  at  the  present  day, 
to  the  knights-errant  of  yore.  They  lead  the  same  kind 
of  roving,  adventurous  life,  only  changing  the  lance  for  a 
driving-whip,  the  buckler  for  a  pattern-card,  and  the  coat 
of  mail  for  an  upper-Benjamin.  Instead  of  vindicating 
the  charms  of  peerless  beauty,  they  rove  about,  spreading 
the  fame  and  standing  of  some  substantial  tradesman  or 
manufacturer,  and  are  ready  at  any  time  to  bargain  in  his 
name  ;  it  being  the  fashion  now-a-days  to  trade  instead  of 
fight  with  one  another.  As  the  room  of  the  hostel,  in  tha 
good  old  fighting  times,  would  be  hung  round  at  night 
with  the  armour  of  way-worn  warriors — such  as  coats  of 
mail,  falchions  and  yawning  helmets ;  so  the  travellers' 
room  is  garnished  with  the  harnessing  of  their  successors, — 
with  box-coats,  whips  of  all  kinds,  spurs,  gaiters,  and  oil 
cloth  covered  hats. 

I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  some  of  these  worthies  to  talk 
«ith,  but  was  disappointed.  There  were,  indeed,  two  or 
three  in  the  room ;  but  I  could  make  nothing  of  them- 
One  was  just  finishing  his  breakfast,  quarrelling  with  his 
bread  and  butter,  and  huffing  the  waiter ;  another  button 
ed  on  a  pair  of  gaiters,  with  many  execrations  at  Boots  for 
not  having  cleaned  his  shoes  well ;  a  third  sat  drumming 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers,  and  looking  at  the  rain  as  it 
streamed  down  the  window-glass ;  they  all  appeared  in 
fected  with  the  weather,  and  disappeared,  one  after  the 
other,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  at  the  peo 
ple  picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petticoats  hoisted 
mid-leg  high,  and  dripping  umbrellas.  The  bell  ceased  to 
toll,  and  the  streets  became  silent.  I  then  amused  myself 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  1'ROSE.  158 

with  watching  the  daughters  of  a  tradesman  opposite,  who, 
being  confined  to  the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sun 
day  finery,  played  off  their  charms  at  the  front  windows 
to  fascinate  the  chance  tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at  length 
were  summoned  away  by  a  vigilant,  vinegar-faced  mother 
and  I  had  nothing  further  from  without  to  amuse  me. 

What  was  I  to  do  to  pass  away  the  long-lived  day  ?  I 
was  sadly  nervous  and  lonely  ;  and  every  thing  about  an 
inn  seems  calculated  to  make  a  dull  day  ten  times  duller  : 
old  newspapers,  smelling  of  beer  and  tobacco  smoke,  and 
which  I  had  already  read  half  a  dozen  times ;  good-for- 
nothing  books,  that  were  worse  than  rainy  weather.  I 
bored  myself  to  death  with  an  old  volume  of  the  Lady's 
Magazine.  I  read  all  the  common-place  names  of  ambi 
tious  travellers  scrawled  on  the  panes  of  glass  ;  the  eternal 
families  of  the  Smiths  and  the  Browns,  and  the  Jacksons 
and  the  Johnsons,  and  all  the  other  sons ;  and  I  deciphered 
several  scraps  of  fatiguing  inn-window  poetry,  which  I 
have  met  with  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy  ;  the  slovenly, 
ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted  heavily  along ;  there  was  no 
variety  even  in  the  rain ;  it  was  one  dull,  continued,  mo 
notonous  patter — patter — patter,  except  that  now  and  then 
I  was  enlivened  by  the  idea  of  a  brisk  shower,  from  the 
rattling  of  the  drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella. 

It  was  quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a  hack 
neyed  phrase  of  the  day)  when,  in  the  course  of  the  morn 
ing,  a  horn  blew,  and  a  stage-coach  whirled  through  the 
street,  with  outside  passengers  stuck  all  over  it,  cowering 
under  cotton  umbrellas,  and  seethed  together,  and  reeking 
-vith  the  steams  of  wet  box-coats  and  upper  Benjamins.  The 
sound  brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew  of  vag 
abond  boys  and  vagabond  dogs,  and  the  carroty-headed 
hostler,  and  that  non-descript  animal  yclept  Boots,  and  al/ 
the  other  vagabond  race  that  infest  the  purlieus  of  an  inn  : 
but  the  bustle  was  transient ^  the  coach  again  whirled  on 
its  way,  and  boy  and  dog,  and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk 
back  again  to  their  holes  ;  the  street  again  became  silent, 
and  the  rain  continued  to  rain  on.  In  fact  there  was  no 
hope  of  its  clearing  up  :  the  barometer  pointed  to  rainy 
weather ;  mine  hostess'  tortoise-shell  cat  sat  by  the  fire 


156  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PUOSE. 

washing  her  face,  and  rubbing  her  paws  over  her  ears 
and,  on  referring  to  the  almanac,  I  found  a  direful  predic 
tion  stretching  from  the  top  of  the  page  to  the  bottom, 
through  the  whole  month,  "  Expect — much — rain — about 
— this — time." 

I  was  dreadfully  hipped.  The  hours  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  creep  by.  The  very  ticking  of  the  clock  be 
came  irksome.  At  length  the  stillness  of  the  house  was 
interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  a  bell.  Shortly  after,  I  heard 
the  voice  of  a  waiter  at  the  bar, — "  The  stout  gentleman  in 
No.  13  wants  his  breakfast.  Tea  and  bread  and  butter, 
with  ham  and  eggs ;  the  eggs  not  to  be  too  much  done." 
In  such  a  situation  as  mine,  every  incident  was  of  impor 
tance.  Here  was  a  subject  of  speculation  presented  to  my 
mind  ;  and  ample  exercise  for  my  imagination.  I  am  prone 
to  paint  pictures  to  myself,  and  on  this  occasion  I  had  some 
materials  to  work  upon.  Had  the  guest  up  stairs  been  men 
tioned  as  Mr.  Smith,  or  Mr.  Brown,  or  Mr.  Jackson,  or 
.Tierely  as  "  the  gentleman  in  No.  13,"  it  would  have  been 
a  perfect  blank  to  me  ;  I  should  have  thought  nothing  of 
it ;  but  "  the  stout  gentleman  !" — the  very  name  had 
something  in  it  of  the  picturesque.-  It  at  once  gave  the 
size  ;  it  imbodied  the  personage  to  my  mind's  eye,  and  my 
fancy  did  the  rest.  He  was  stout,  or,  as  some  term  it, 
lusty ;  in  all  probability,  therefore,  he  was  advanced  in 
life,  some  people  expanding  as  they  grow  old.  By  his 
breakfasting  rather  late,  and  in  his  own  room,  he  must  be 
a  man  accustomed  to  live  at  his  ease,  and  above  the  neces 
sity  of  early  rising  ;  no  doubt  a  round,  rosy,  lusty  old  gen 
tleman. 

There  was  another  violent  ringing ;  the  stout  gentleman 
was  impatient  for  his  breakfast.  He  was  evidently  a  man 
of  importance  ;  "  well  to  do  in  the  world  ;"  accustomed  to 
he  promptly  waited  upon  ;  of  a  keen  appetite,  and  a  little 
cross  when  hungry.  "  Perhaps,"  thought  I,  "he  may  be 
Borne  London  alderman ;  or  -who  knows  but  he  may  be  a 
member  of  parliament." 

The  breakfast  was  sent  up,  and  there  was  a  short  inter 
val  of  silence  ;  he  was  doubtless  making  the  tea.  Presently 
there  was  a  violent  ringing,  and,  befote  it  could  be  answereil, 
another  ringing  still  more  violent.  "  Bless  me !  what  a 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  157 

choleric,. old  gentleman !"  The  waiter  came  down  m  a  huff 
The  butter  was  rancid ;  the  eggs  were  overdone  ;  the  ham 
too  salt.  The  stout  gentleman  was  evidently  nice  in  his  eat 
ing  ;  one  of  those  who  eat  and  growl,  and  keep  the  waiter  on 
the  trot,  and  live,  in  a  state  militant  with  the  household.  The 
hostess  got  into  a  fume.  I  should  observe  that  she  was  a 
brisk,  coquettish  woman  ;  a  little  of  a  shrew,  and  something 
of  a  slammerkin,  but  very  pretty  withal ;  with  a  nincompoop 
for  a  husband,  as  shrews  are  apt  to  have.  She  rated  the 
servants  roundly,  for  their  negligence  in  sending  up  so  bad 
a  breakfast,  but  said  not  a  word  against  the  stout  gentle 
man  ;  by  which  I  clearly  perceived  that  he  must  be  a  man 
of  consequence,  entitled  to  make  a  noise,  and  to  give  trouble 
at  a  country  inn.  Other  eggs  and  ham,  and  bread  and 
butter,  were  sent  up.  They  appeared  to  be  more  gracious 
ly  received ;  at  least  there  was  no  further  complaint.  J 
had  not  made  many  turns  about  the  travellers'  room,  when 
there  was  another  ringing.  Shortly  afterwards  there  was 
a  stir  and  an  inquest  about  the  house.  The  stout  gentle 
man  wanted  the  Times  or  Chronicle  newspaper.  I  set 
him  down  therefore  for  a  whig ;  or  rather,  from  his  being 
so  absolute  and  lordly  where  he  had  a  chance,  I  suspected 
him  of  being  a  radical.  Hunt,  I  had  heard,  was  a  large 
man  ;  "  Who  knows,"  thought  I,  "  but  it  is  Hunt  himself  ?" 
My  curiosity  began  to  be  awakened.  I  inquired  of  the 
waiter,  who  was  this  stout  gentleman,  that  was  making  all 
this  stir  ;  but  I  could  get  no  information.  Nobody  seemed 
to  know  his  name.  The  landlords  of  bustling  inns  seldom 
trouble  their  heads  about  the  names  or  occupations  of  tran 
sient  guests.  The  colour  of  the  coat,  the  shape  or  size  of 
the  person,  is  enough  to  suggest  a  travelling  name.  It  is 
cither  the  tall  gentleman,  or  the  short  gentleman,  or  the 
gentleman  in  black,  or  the  gentleman  in  snuff  colour,  or, 
as  in  the  present  instance,  the  stout  gentleman :  a  des 
ignation  of  the  kind  once  hit  on,  answers  every  purpose, 
and  saves  all  further  inquiry. — Rain — rain — rain  !  pitiless, 
ceaseless  rain !  No  such  thing  as  putting  a  foot  out  of 
doors,  and  no  occupation  or  amusement  within.  By  and  by 
I  heard  some  one  walking  over  head.  It  was  in  the  stout 
gentleman's  room.  He  evidently  was  a  large  man,  by  the 
heaviness  of  his  treid  ;  and  an  old  man,  from  his  wearing 
14 


158  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

such  creaking  sole?.  "  He  is  doubtless,"  thought.1,  "  som« 
rich  old  square-toes,  of  regular  habits,  and  is  now  taking 
exercise  after  breakfast." 

I  had  to  go  to  work  at  this  picture  again,  and  to  painc 
him  entirely  different.  I  now  set  him  down  for  one  of 
those  stout  gentlemen,  that  are  frequently  met  with,  swag 
gering  about  the  doors  of  country  inns  :  moist,  merry  fel 
lows,  in  Belcher  handkerchiefs,  whose  bulk  is  a  little  as 
sisted  by  malt  liquors  :  men  who  have  seen  the  world,  and 
been  sworn  at  High-gate  ;  who  are  used  to  tavern  life  ;  up 
to  all  the  tricks  of  tapsters,  and  knowing  in  the  ways  of 
sinful  publicans ;  free  livers  on  a  small  scale,  who  are  prod 
igal  within  the  compass  of  a  guinea ;  who  call  all  the  wai 
ters  by  name,  tousle  the  maids,  gossip  with  the  landlady  at 
the  bar,  and  prose  over  a  pint  of  port,  or  a  glass  of  negus 
after  dinner.  The  morning  wore  away  in  forming  of  these 
and  similar  surmises.  As  fast  as  I  wove  one  system  of 
belief,  some  movement  of  the  unknown  would  completely 
overthrow  it,  and  throw  all  my  thoughts  again  into  confu 
sion.  Such  are  the  solitary  operations  of  a  feverish  mind 
I  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely  nervous  ;  and  the  continual 
meditation  on  the  concerns  of  this  invisible  personage  began 
to  have  its  effect.  Dinner  time  came.  I  hoped  the  stout 
gentleman  might  dine  in  the  travellers'  room,  and  that  I 
might  at  length  get  a  view  of  his  person  ;  but  no,  he  had  din 
ner  served  in  his  own  room.  What  could  be  the  meaning 
of  this  solitude  and  mystery  ?  He  could  not  be  a  radical ; 
there  was  something  too  aristocratical  in  thus  keeping  him 
self  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  condemning 
himself  to  his  own  dull  company  through  a  rainy  day.  And 
then,  too,  he  lived  too  well  for  a  discontented  politician. 
He  seemed  to  expatiate  on  a  variety  of  dishes,  and  to  sit 
over  his  wine  like  a  jolly  friend  of  good  living.  Indeed, 
my  doubts  on  this  head  were  soon  at  an  end ;  for  he  could 
not  have  finished  his  first  bottle,  before  I  could  faintly  hear 
him  humming  a  tune ;  and,  on  listening,  I  found  it  to  be 
"  God  save  the  King."  'Twas  plain,  then,  he  was  no 
radical,  but  a  faithful  subject;  one  that  grew  loyal  over 
his  bottle,  and  was  ready  to  stand  by  King  and  Con 
stitution  when  he  could  stand  by  nothing  else.  But  who 
could  he  be  ?  My  conjectures  began  to  run  wild.  Was 


COMMON-PLACE    150 OX  OP  PROSE.  159 

he  not  some  person  of  distinction  travelling  incog.  1  "  Who 
knows  ?"  said  I,  at  my  wit's  end  ;  "  it  may  be  one  of  the 
royal  family,  for  aught  I  know,  for  they  are  all  stout  gen 
tlemen  !"  /The  weather  continued  rainy.  The  mysterious 
unknown  kept  his  room,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  his 
chair,  for  I  did  not  hear  him  move.  In  the  mean  time,  a? 
the  day  advanced,  the  travellers'  room  began  to  be  frequent 
ed.  Some,  who  had  just  arrived,  came  in  buttoned  up  in 
box-coats ;  others  came  home,  who  had  been  dispersed 
about  the  town.  Some  took  their  dinners,  and  some  their 
tea.  Had  I  been  in  a  different  mood,  I  should  have  found 
entertainment  in  studying  this  peculiar  class  of  men.  There 
were  two,  especially,  who"  were  regular  wags  of  the  road, 
and  up  to  all  the  standing  jokes  of  travellers.  They  had 
a  thousand  sly  things  to  say  to  the  waiting  tnaid,  whom 
they  called  Louisa  and  Ethelinda,  and  a  dozen  other  fine 
names,  changing  the  name  every  time,  and  chuckling 
amazingly  at  their  own  waggery.  My  mind,  however, 
had  become  completely  engrossed  by  the  stout  gentleman 
He  had  kept  my  fancy  in  chase  during  a  long  day,  and  it 
was  not  now  to  be  diverted  from  the  scent. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away  ;  the  travellers  read 
the  papers  two  or  three  times  over ;  some  drew  round  the 
fire,  and  told  long  stories  about  their  horses,  about  their  ad 
ventures,  their  overturns  and  breakings  down.  They  dis 
cussed  the  credit  of  different  merchants  and  different  inns. 
And  the  two  wags  told  several  choice  anecdotes  of  pretty 
chambermaids  and  landladies.  All  this  passed  as  they  were 
quietly  taking  what  they  called  their  night-caps,  that  is  to 
say,  strong  glasses  of  brandy  and  water  and  sugar,  or  some 
other  mixture  of  the  kind,  after  which  they,  one  after 
another,  rang  for  Boots  and  the  chambermaid,  and  walked, 
off  to  bed  in  old  shoes  cut  down  into  marvellously  uncom 
fortable  slippers.  There  was  only  one  man  left — a  short- 
legged,  long-bodied,  plethoric  fellow,  with  a  very  large, 
sandy  head.  He  sat  by  himself  with  a  glass  of  port-wine 
negus  and  a  spoon  ;  sipping  and  stirring,  and  meditating 
and  sipping,  until  nothing  was  left  but  the  spoon.  He 
gradually  fell  asleep,  but  upright  in  his  chair,  with  the 
empty  glass  standing  before  him  ;  and  the  candle  seemed 
to  fall  asleep  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long,  and  black,  and 


160  COMMON-PLACE  COOK  OF  PROSE. 

cabbaged  at  the  end,  and  dimmed  the  little  light  that  re- 
mained  in  the  chamber.  The  gloom  that  now  prevailed 
was  contagious.  Around  hung  the  shapeless  and  almost 
/  spectral  box-coats  of  the  travellers,  long  since  buried  in 
deep  sleep.  I  only  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  with 
the  deep-drawn  breathings  of  the  sleeping  toper,  and  the 
drippings  of  the  rain, — drop — drop — drop, — from  the  eaves 
of  the  house.  The  church  bells  chimed  midnight.  All  at 
once  the  stout  gentleman  began  to  walk  over  head,  pacing 
slowly  backwards  and  forwards.  There  was  something  ex 
tremely  awful  in  all  this,  especially  to  one  in  my  state  of 
nerves, — these  ghastly  great-coats,  these  guttural  breath 
ings,  and  the  creaking  footsteps  of  this  mysterious  gentle 
man.  His  steps  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length 
died  away.  *  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  was  wound  up 
to  the  desperation  of  a  hero  of  romance.  "  Be  he  who  or 
what  he  may,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I'll  have  a  sight  of 
him  !"  I  seized  a  chamber-candle,  and  hurried  up  to  No 
13.  The  door  stood  ajar.  I  hesitated, — I  entered.  The 
room  was  deserted.  There  stood  a  large  broad-bottomed 
elbow-chair  at  a  table,  on  which  was  an  empty  tumbler, 
and  a  Times  newspaper ;  and  the  room  smelt  powerfully 
of  Stilton  cheese.  The  mysterious  stranger  had  evidently 
just  retired.  I  turned  off,  sorely  disappointed,  to  my  room, 
which  had  been  changed  to  the  front  of  the  house.  As  I 
went  along  the  corridor,  I  saw  a  large  pair  of  boots,  with 
dirty,  waxed  tops,  standing  at  the  door  of  a  bedchamber. 
They  doubtless  belonged  to  the  unknown ;  but  it  would 
not  do  to  disturb  so  redoubtable  a  person  in  his  den.  He 
might  discharge  a  pistol,  or  something  worse,  at  my  head. 
I  went  to  bed,  therefore,  and  lay  awake  half  the  night  in 
a  terribly  nervous  state,  and,  even  when  I  fell  asleep,  I 
was  still  haunted  by  the  idea  of  the  stout  gentleman  and 
his  wax-topped  boots. 

I  slept  rather  late  the  next  morning,  and  was  awakened 
by  some  stir  or  bustle  in  the  house,  which  I  could  not  at 
first  comprehend ;  until,  getting  more  awake,  I  found  there 
was  a  mail  coach  starting  from  the  door.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  cry  from  below,  "  The  gentleman  has  forgotten  his 
umbrella  !  look  for  the  gentleman's  umbrella  in  No.  13  !" 
I  heard  an  immediate  scampering  of  a  chambermaid  along 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  16 

the  passage,  and  a  shrill  reply  as  she  ran,  "  Here  it  is . 
here's  the  gentlemanVumbrella !"  The  mysterious  stran 
ger  was,  then,  on  the  point  of  setting  off.  This  was  the 
only  chance  I  could  ever  have  of  knowing  him.  I  sprang 
out  of  bed,  scrambled  to  the  window,  snatched  aside  the 
curtains,  and  just  caught  a  glimpse  at  the  rear  of  a  person, 
getting  in  at  the  coach-door.  The  skirts  of  a  brown  coat 
parted  behind,  and  gave  me  a  full  view  of  the  broad  disk 
of  a  pair  of  drab  breeches.  The  door  closed.  "All 
right !"  was  the  word, — the  coach  whirled  off, — and  that 
was  all  I  ever  saw  of  the  stout  gentleman. 


Patriotism  and  Eloquence  of  John  Adams.' — WEBSTER 

HE  possessed  a  bold  spirit,  which  disregarded  danger, 
and  a  sanguine  reliance  on  the  goodness  of  the  cause  and 
the  virtues  of  the  people,  which  led  him  to  overlook  all 
obstacles.  His  character,  too,  had  been  formed  in  troubled 
times.  He  had  been  rocked  in  the  early  storms  of  the  con 
troversy,  and  had  acquired  a  decision  and  a  hardihood, 
proportioned  to  the  severity  of  the  discipline  which  he  had 
undergone. 

He  not  only  loved  the  American  cause  devoutly,  but 
had  studied  and  understood  it.  He  had  tried  his  powers, 
on  the  questions  which  it  involved,  often,  and  in  various 
ways ;  and  had  brought  to  their  consideration  wha*3ver 
of  argument  or  illustration  the  history  of  his  own  country, 
the  history  of  England,  or  the  stores  of  ancient  or  of  legal 
learning  could  furnish.  Every  grievance  enumerated  in 
the  long  catalogue  of  the  Declaration,  had  been  the  sub 
ject  of  his  discussion,  and  the  object  of  his  remonstrance 
and  reprobation.  From  1760,  the  colonies,  the  rights  of 
the  colonies,  the  liberties  of  the  colonies,  and  the  wrongs 
inflicted  on  the  colonies,  had  engaged  his  constant  atten 
tion  ;  and  it  has  surprised  those,  who  have  had  the  oppor 
tunity  of  observing,  with  what  full  remembrance,  and  with 
what  prompt  recollection,  he  could  refer,  in  his  extreme 
old  age,  to  every  act  of  parliament  affecting  the  colonies, 
distinguishing  and  stating  their  respective  titles,  sections 
14* 


1G2  COMMON-1'LACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

and  provisions ;  and  to  all  the  colonial  memorials,  remote 
strances  and  petitions,  with  whatever  else  belonged  to  the 
intimate  and  exact  history  of  the  times,  from  that  year  to 
1775.  It  was,  in  his  own  judgment,  between  these  years, 
that  the  American  people  came  to  a  full  understanding 
and  thorough  knowledge  of  their  rights,  and  to  a  fixed  res 
olution  of  maintaining  them ;  and,  bearing  himself  an  ac 
tive  part  in  all  important  transactions,  the  controversy  with 
England  being  then,  in  effect,  the  business  of  his  life,  facts, 
dates  and  particulars  made  an  impression  which  was  never 
effaced.  He  was  prepared,  therefore,  by  education  and 
discipline,  as  well  as  by  natural  talent  and  natural  temper 
ament,  for  the  part  which  he  was  now  to  act. 

The  eloquence  of  Mr.  Adams  resembled  his  general 
character,  and  formed,  indeed,  a  part  of  it.  It  was  bold, 
manly  and  energetic  ;  and  such  the  crisis  required. 
When  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed  on  momentous  oc 
casions,  when  great  interests  are  at  stake,  and  strong  pas 
sions  excited,  nothing  is  valuable  in  speech,  further  than  it 
is  connected  with  high  intellectual  and  moral  endowments. 
Clearness,  force  and  earnestness  are  the  qualities  which 
produce  conviction.  True  eloquence,  indeed,  does  not 
consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought  from  far.  Labour 
and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in  vain. 
Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshalled  in  every  way,  but 
they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the 
subject,'and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense  ex 
pression,  the  pomp  of  declamation,  all  may  aspire  after  it — 
they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the 
outbreaking  of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting 
forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original,  native 
ftrce.  The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  orna 
ments,  and  studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock  and  dis 
gust  men,  when  their  own  lives,  and  the  fate  of  their 
wives,  their  children,  and  their  country,  hang  on  the  de 
cision  of  the  hour.  Then  words  have  lost  their  power, 
rhetoric  is  vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory  contemptible. 
Even  genius  itself  then  feels  rebuked,  and  subdued,  as  in 
the  presence  of  higher  qualities.  Then  patriotism  is  elo 
quent  ;  then  self-devotion  is  eloquent.  The  clear  concep 
tion,  out-running  the  deductions  of  logic,  the  high  purpose, 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  '»F  PROSE.  163 

the  firm  resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the 
tongue,  beaming  from  the  eye,  informing  every  feature, 
and  urging  the  whole  man  onward,  right  onward  to  his 
object — this,  this  is  eloquence  ;  or,  rather,  it  is  something 
greater  and  higher  than  all  eloquence — it  is  action,  noble, 
sublime,  godlike  action. 

In  July,  1776,  the  controversy  had  passed  the  stage  of 
argument.  An  appeal  had  been  made  to  force,  and  oppos 
ing  armies  were  in  the  field.  Congress,  then,  was  to  de 
cide  whether  the  tie,  which  had  so  long  bound  us  to  the 
parent  State,  was  to  be  severed  at  once,  and  severed  forever. 
All  the  colonies  had  signified  their  resolution  to  abide  by  this 
decision,  and  the  people  looked  for  it  with  the  most  intense 
anxiety.  And  surely,  fellow-citizens,  never,  never  were 
men  called  to  a  more  important  political  deliberation.  If 
we  contemplate  it  from  the  point  where  they  then  stood, 
no  question  could  be  more  full  of  interest;  if  we  look  at 
it  now,  and  judge  of  its  importance  by  its  effects,  it  appears 
in  still  greater  magnitude. 

Let  us,  then,  bring  before  us  the  assembly,  which  was 
about  to  decide  a  question  thus  big  with  the  fate  of  empire. 
Let  us  open  their  doors,  and  look  in  upon  their  deliberations 
Let  us  survey  the  anxious  and  care-worn  countenances, 
let  us  hear  thf  firm-toned  voices,  of  this  band  of  patriots. 

Hancock  presides  over  the  solemn  sitting ;  and  one  of 
those  not  yet  prepared  to  pronounce  for  absolute  indepen 
dence,  is  on  the  floor,  and  is  urging  his  reasons  for  dissent 
ing  from  the  Declaration. 


It  was  for  Mr.  Adnms  to  reply  to  arguments  like  these. 
We  know  his  opinions,  and  we  know  his  character.  He 
would  commence  with  his  accustomed  directness  and  ear 
nestness. 

"  Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I  give  my 
hand,  and  my  heart,  to  this  vote.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that, 
in  the  beginning,  we  aimed  not  at  independence.  But 
there's  a  Divinity  which  shapes  our  ends.  The  injustice 
of  England  has  driven  us  to  arms  ;  and,  blinded  to  her  own 
interest,  for  our  good,  she  has  obstinately  persisted,  till  in- 
Jependence  is  now  within  our  grasp.  We  have  but  ta 


164  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

reach  forth  to  it,  aad  it  is  ours.  Why  then  should  we  de 
fer  the  Declaration  ?  Is  any  man  so  weak  as  now  to  hope 
for  a  reconciliation  with  England,  which  shall  leave  eitlter 
safety  to  the  country  and  its  liberties,  or  safety  to  his  own 
life,  and  his  own  honour  ?  Are  not  you,  sir,  who  sit  in  that 
chair,  is  not  he,  our  venerable  colleague  near  you,  are  you 
not  both  already  the  proscribed  and  predestined  objects  of 
punishment  and  of  vengeance  ?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of 
royal  clemency,  what  are  you,  what  can  you  be,  while 
the  power  of  England  remains,  but  outlaws  ?  If  we  pc^t.- 
pone  independence,  do  we  mean  to  carry  on,  or  to  give  up 
the  war  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit  to  the  measures  of  par 
liament,  Boston  port-bill  and  all  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit, 
and  consent  that  we  ourselves  shall  be  ground  to  powder, 
and  our  country  and  its  rights  trodden  down  in  the  dust  ? 
I  know  we  do  not  mean  to  submit.  We  never  shall  sub 
mit.  Do  we  intend  to  violate  that  most  solemn  obligation 
ever  entered  into  by  men,  that  plighting,  before  God,  of 
our  sacred  honour  to  Washington,  when,  putting  him  forth 
to  incur  the  dangers  of  war,  as  well  as  the  political  haz 
ards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to  him,  in  every 
extremity,  with  our  fortunes  and  our  lives  ?  I  know  there 
is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see  a  general 
conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an  earthquake  sink 
it,  than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted  faith  fall  to  the 
ground.  For  myself,  having,  twelve  months  ago,  in  this 
place,  moved  you  that  George  Washington  be  appointed 
commander  of  the  forces,  raised  or  to  be  raised,  for  defence 
of  American  liberty,  may  my  right  hand  forget  her  cun 
ning,  and  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if 
I  hesitate  or  waver,  in  the  support  I  give  him.  The  war, 
then,  must  go  on.  We  must  fight  it  through.  A  ad  if  the 
war  must  go  on,  why  put  off  longer  the  Declaration  of  In 
dependence  '  That  measure  will  strengthen  us.  It  will 
give  us  character  abroad.  The  nations  will  then  treat  with 
us,  which  they  never  can  do  Thile  we  acknowledge  our 
selves  subjects,  in  arms  against  our  sovereign.  Nay,  I 
maintain  that  England  herself  will  sooner  treat  for  peace 
with  us  on  the  footing  of  independence,  than  consent,  by 
repealing  her  acts,  to  acknowledge  that  her  whole  conduct 
towards  us  has  been  a  course  of  injustice  and  oppression 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


165 


Her  pride  will  be  less  wounded,  by  submitting  to  that 
course  of  things  which  now  predestinates  our  independence, 
than  by  yielding  the  points  in  controversy  to  her  rebellious 
subjects.  The  former  she  would  regard  as  the  result  of  for 
tune  ;  the  latter  she  would  feel  as  her  own  deep  disgrace. 
Why  then,  why  then,  sir,  do  we  not,  as  soon  as  possible, 
change  this  from  a  civil  to  a  national  war  ?  And,  since  we 
must  fight  it  through,  why  not  put  ourselves  in  a  state  to 
enjoy  all  the  benefits  of  victory,  if  we  gain  the  victory  ? 

"  If  we  fail,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us.  But  we  shall 
not  fail.  The  cause  will  raise  up  armies ;  the  cause  will 
create  navies.  The  people,  the  people,  if  we  are  true  to 
them,  will  carry  us,  and  will  carry  themselves,  gloriously 
through  this  struggle.  I  care  not  how  fickle  other  people 
have  been  found.  I  know  the  people  of  these  colonies,  and 
I  know  that  resistance  to  British  aggression  is  deep  and 
settled  in  their  hearts,  and  cannot  be  eradicated.  Every 
colony,  indeed,  has  expressed  its"  willingness  to  follow,  if 
we  but  take  the  lead.  Sir,  the  Declaration  will  inspire 
the  people  with  increased  courage.  Instead  of  a  long  and 
bloody  war  for  restoration  of  privileges,  for  redress  of 
grievances,  for  chartered  immunities,  held  under  a  British 
king,  set  before  them  the  glorious  object  of  entire  inde 
pendence,  and  it  will  breathe  into  them  anew  the  breath 
of  life.  Read  this  Declaration  at  the  head  of  the  army 
every  sword  will  be  drawn  from  its  scabbard,  and  the  solemn 
vow  uttered,  to  maintain  it,  or  to  perish  on  the  bed  of  hon 
our.  Publish  it  from  the  pulpit ;  religion  will  approve  it, 
and  the  love  of  religious  liberty  will  cling  round  it,  re 
solved  to  stand  with  it,  or  fall  with  it.  Send  it  to  the  pub 
lic  halls ;  proclaim  it  there  ;  let  them  hear  it,  who  heard 
the  first  roar  of  the  enemy's  cannon  ;  let  them  see  it,  who 
saw  their  brothers  and  their  sons  fall  on  the  field  of  Bunker 
Hill,  and  in  the  streets  of  Lexington  and  Concord,  and  the 
very  walls  will  cry  out  in  its  support. 

"  Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  but  I  see, 
I  see  ciearly,  through  this  day's  business.  You  and  I 
indeed,  may  rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time  when 
this  Declaration  shall  be  made  good.  We  may  die  ;  die, 
colonists ;  die,  slaves ;  die,  it  may  be,  ignominiously,  and 
on  the  scaffold.  Be  it  so.  Be  it  so.  If  it  be  the  pleasure 


166  COMMON-PLACE    HOOK  OF  1'UOSE. 

of  Heaven  that  my  country  shall  require  the  poor  offering 
of  iny  life,  the  victim  shall  be  ready,  at  the  appointed  hour 
of  sacrifice,  come  when  that  hour  may.  But,  while  I  do 
live,  let  me  have  a  country,  or  at  least  the  hope  of  a  coun 
try,  and  that  a  free  country. 

''  But,  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be  assured, 
that  this  Declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  atd 
Jt  may  cost  blood  ;  but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will  richly  com 
pensate  for  both.  Through  the  thick  gloom  of  the  present, 
I  see  the  brightness  of  the  future,  as  the  sun  in  heaven. 
We  shall  make  this  a  glorious,  an  immortal  day.  When 
we  are  in  our  graves,  our  children  will  honour  it.  They 
will  celebrate  it  with  thanksgiving,  with  festivity,  with 
bonfires  and  illuminations.  On  its  annual  return  they  will 
shed  tears,  copious,  gushing  tears,  not  of  subjection  and 
slavery,  not  of  agony  and  distress,  but  of  exultation,  of 
gratitude,  and  of  joy.  Sir,  before  God,  I  believe  the  hour 
is  come.  My  judgment  approves  this  measure,  and  my 
whole  heart  is  in  it.  All  that  I  have,  and  all  that  I  am. 
and  all  that  I  hope  in  this  life,  I  am  now  ready  here  (o 
stake  upon  it;  and  I  leave  off,  as  I  begun,  that,  live  or  die, 
survive  or  perish,  I  am  for  the 'Declaration.  It  is  my  liv 
ing  sentiment,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  it  shall  be  my 
dying  sentiment — independence  now ;  and  INDEPEN 
DENCE  FOREVER!" 


Description  of  the  Speedwell  Mine  in  England  — 
SILLIMAN. 

WE  entered  a  wooden  door,  placed  in  the  side  of  a  hill 
and  descended  one  hundred  and  six  stone  steps,  laid  like 
those  of  a  set  of  ceJlar  stairs.  The  passage  was  regularly 
arched  with  brick,  and  was  in  all  respects  convenient. 

Having  reached  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  we  found  a 
handsome  vaulted  passage  cut  through  solid  limestone. 
The  light  of  our  candles  discovered  that  it  extended  hori 
zontally  into  the  mountain,  and  its  floor  was  covered  with  an 
unruffled  expanse  of  water,  four  feet  deep.  The  entrance 
of  this  passage  was  perfectly  similar  in  form  to  the  mo'ith 


COMMON-PLACE  COOK.  OF  PROSE.  167 

of  a  common  oven,  only  it  was  much  larger.  Its  breadth, 
by  my  estimation,  was  about  five  feet  at  the  water's  sur 
face,  and  its  height  four  or  five  feet,  reckoning  from  the 
same  place. 

Oa  this  unexpected,  and  to  me,  at  that  moment,  incom 
prehensible  canal,  we  found  launched  a  large,  clean  and 
convenient  boat. 

We  embarked,  and  pulled  ourselves  along,  by  taking 
hold  of  wooden  pegs,  fixed  for  that  purpose  in  the  walls. 
Our  progress  was  through  a  passage  wholly  artificial,  it 
having  been  all  blasted  and  hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock. 
You  will  readily  believe  that  this  adventure  was  a  delight 
ful  recreation.  I  never  felt  more  forcibly  the  power  of 
contrast.  Instead  of  crawling  through  a  narrow,  dirty  pas 
sage,  we  were  now  pleasantly  embarked,  and  were  push 
ing  along  into  I  knew  not  what  solitary  regions  of  this  rude 
earth,  over  an  expanse  as  serene  as  summer  seas.  We 
had  not  the  odours  nor  the  silken  sails  of  Cleopatra's  barge, 
but  we  excelled  her  in  melody  of  sound,  and  distinctness 
of  echo ;  for,  when,  in  the  gayety  of  my  spirits,  I  began 
to  sing,  the  boatman  soon  gave  me  to  understand  that  no 
one  should  sing  in  his  mountain,  without  his  permission  ; 
and,  before  I  had  uttered  three  notes,  he  broke  forth  in 
such  a  strain,  that  I  was  contented  to  listen,  and  yield  the 
palm  without  a  contest. 

His  voice,  which  was  strong,  clear  and  melodious,  made 
all  those  silent  regions  ring ;  the  long,  vaulted  passage 
augmented  the  effect ;  echo  answered  with  great  distinct 
ness,  and  had  the  genii  of  the  mountain  been  there,  they 
would  doubtless  have  takei:  passage  with  us,  and  hearken 
ed  to  the  song.  In  the  mean  time  we  began  to  hear  the 
sound  of  a  distant  water-fall,  which  grew  louder  and  loud 
er,  as  we  advanced  under  the  mountain,  till  it  increased 
to  such  a  roaring  noise  that  the  boatman  could  no  longer 
be  heard.  In  this  manner  we  went  on,  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
till  we  arrived  in  a  vast  cavern  formed  there  by  nature. 
The  miners,  as  they  were  blasting  the  rocks,  at  the  time 
when  they  were  forming  the  vaulted  passage,  accidentally 
opened  their  way  into  this  cavern.  Here  I  discovered  how 
the  canal  was  supplied  with  water ; — I  found  that  it  com 
municated  with  a  river  running  through  the  cavern  at 


168  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

right  angles  with  the  arched  passage,  and  falling  down  i 
precipice  twenty-five  feet  into  a  dark  abyss. 

After  crossing  the  river,  the  arched  way  is  continued  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  farther,  on  the  other  side,  making  in  the 
whole  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance.  The  end  of  the 
arch  is  six  hundred  feet  below  the  summit  of  the  moun 
tain.  When  it  is  considered  that  all  this  was  effected  by 
mere  dint  of  hewing  and  blasting,  it  must  be  pronounced 
a  stupendous  performance.  It  took  eleven  years  of  con 
stant  labour  to  effect  it.  In  the  mean  time  the  fortune  of 
the  adventurer  was  consumed,  without  any  discovery  of 
ore,  except  a  very  little  lead,  and,  to  this  day,  this  great 
work  remains  only  a  wonderful  monument  of  human  la 
bour  and  perseverance. 

During  the  whole  period  of  five  years  that  they  contin 
ued  this  work,  after  they  crossed  the  cavern,  they  threw 
the  rubbish  into  the  abyss,  and  it  has  not  sensibly  filled 
it  up. 

They  have  contrived  to  increase  the  effect  of  the  cataract 
by  fixing  a  gate  along  the  ledge  of  rocks  over  which  the 
river  falb.  This  gate  is  raised  by  a  lever,  and  then  the  whole 
mass  of  water  in  the  vaulted  passage,  as  well  as  that  in 
the  river,  presses  forward  towards  the  cataract.  I  ascei?d- 
ed  a  ladder  made  by  pieces  of  timber  fixed  in  the  sides  of 
the  cavern,  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  candle  elevated  on  a  pole, 
I  could  discover  no  top ;  my  guide  assured  me  that  none 
had  been  found,  although  they  had  ascended  very  high. 
This  cavern  is,  without  exception,  the  most  grand  and  sol 
emn  place  that  I  have  ever  seen.  When  you  view  me  as 
in  the  centre  of  a  mountain,  in  the  midst  of  a  void,  where 
the  regularity  of  the  walls  looks  like  some  vast  rotunda ; 
when  you  think  of  a  river  as  flowing  across  the  bottom  of 
this  cavern,  and  falling  abruptly  into  a  profound  abyss, 
with  the  stunning  noise  of  a  cataract ;  when  you  imagine, 
that,  by  the  light  of  a  fire-work  of  gun-powder,  played  off 
on  purpose  to  render  this  darkness  visible,  the  foam  of  the 
cataract  is  illuminated  even  down  to  the  surface  of  the 
water  in  the  abyss,  and  the  rays  emitted  by  the  livid  blaze 
of  this  preparation  are  reflected  along  the  dripping  walls 
of  the  cavern  till  they  are  lost  in  the  darker  regions  above, 
you  will  not  wonder  that  such  a  scene  should  seize  on  my 


COMJfe  .'N-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  169 

whole  soul,  and  fill  me  with  awe  and  astonishment,  caus 
ing  me  to  exclaim,  as  I  involuntarily  did,  Marvellous  are. 
tky  works,  Lord  God  Almighty  ! 

After  ascending  from  the  navigation  mine,  I  attempted 
to  go  up  the  front  of  one  of  the  mountains,  with  the  double 
purpose  of  obtaining  a  view  of  the  valley  from  an  elevated 
point,  and  of  reaching  the  ancient  castlo  But  my  labour 
proved  fruitless ;  the  mountain,  which  irom  the  va'lay 
jeemed  not  difficult  to  ascend,  proved  to  be  exceedingly 
steep.  I  toiled  on,  two  thirds  of  the  way  ujs,  atii\  rindii  g 
it  steeper  and  steeper,  and  still  resolved  not  t4«  relinquish 
wy  purpose ;  in  the  mean  time  it  grew  dark,  wiv\x  the  de- 
»3r  of  twilight,  and  I  was  suddenly  enveloped  in  Ksist  and 
/ain  ;  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  became  very  slipjV.ry ; 
I  fell  frequently,  and,  at  length,  a  deep  and  abrupt  cha^i, 
torn  by  the  floods,  completely  arrested  my  progress,  aiK1 
compelled  me  to  make  the  best  of  my  way  down,  which  I 
did  with  no  small  difficulty.  In  the  midst  of  darkness  and 
rain,  1  reached  tht  Castle-Inn,  completely  drenched,  and 
exhausted  with  fatigue. 


Effects  $f  (he  modern  Dijfiision  of  Knowledge. — 
WAYLAID. 

IN  .  jnsequence  of  this  general  diffusion  of  intelligence, 
nat-  ,ns  are  becoming  vastly  better  «i*-quainted  with  the 
!  ,ysical,  moral  and  political  conditions  of  each  other. 
/Vhatever  of  any  moment  is  transacted  in  the  legislative 
Assemblies  of  one  country  is  now  very  soou  known,  not 
/norely  to  the  rulers,  but  also  to  the  people,  of  oery  other 
country.  Nay,  an  interesting  occurrence  of  any  nature 
cannot  transpire  in  an  insignificant  town  of  Eurvte  or 
America,  without  finding  its  way,  through  the  median,  of 
the  national  journals,  to  the  eyes  and  ears  of  all  Christe^ 
dom.  Every  man  must  now  be  in  a  considerable  degree 
a  spectator  of  the  doings  of  the  world,  or  he  is  soon  very 
far  in  the  rear  of  the  intelligence  of  the  day.  Indeed,  1> 
has  only  to  read  a  respectable  newspaper,  and  he  may  .* 
informed  of  the  discoveries  in  the  arts,  the  discu%«',^L>  j. 
15 


170  COMMON  i-LACE    BOOK  OF  THOSE, 

the  senates,  and  the  bearings  of  public  opinion  all  ovet 
the  world. 

The  reasons  of  all  this  may  chiefly  be  found  in  that  in 
creased  desire  of  information,  which  characterizes  the  mass 
of  society  in  the  present  age  Intelligence  of  every  kind, 
and  spACiilly  political  information,  has  become  an  article  of 
profit ;  aad  when  once  this  is  the  case,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  it  will  be  abundantly  supplied.  Besides  this,  it 
U  important  io  remark,  that  the  art  of  navigation  has  been 
within  a  few  years  materially  improved,  and  commercial 
relations  have  become  vastly  more  extensive.  The  estab 
lishment  of  packet  ships  between  the  two  continents  1m 
brought  London  and  Paris  as  near  to  us  as  Pittsburgh  sad 
New  Orleans.  There  is  every  reason  to  believe,  that, 
Within  the  next  half  century,  steam  navigation  will  render 
communication  between  the  ports  of  Europe  and  America 
as  frequent,  and  almost  as  regular,  as  that  by  ordinary 
mails.  The  commercial  houses  of  every  nation  are  estab 
lishing  &.&\r  agencies  in  the  principal  cities  of  every 
other  nation,  and  thus  binding  together  *he  people  by  every 
tie  of  interest ;  while  at  the  same  time  they  are  furnishing 
innumerable  channels,  by  which  information  may  be  cir 
culated  among  every  class  ',-,1  :he  community. 

Hence  it  is,  that  the  txoral  inSuence  which  nations  are 
exerting  upon  each  ot'<isr,  is  greater  than  it  has  been  at 
any  antecedent  per'.^d  in  the  history  of  the  world.  The 
institutions  of  OK:  country  are  becoming  known,  almost  of 
necessity,  to  every  other  country.  Knowledge  provokes 
to  comparison,  and  comparison  leads  to  inflection.  The 
fact  that  others  are  happier  than  themselves  prompts  men 
i  ino/.ure  whence  this  difference  proceeds,  and  .how  their 
ow'.>  melioration  may  be  accomplished.  By  simpiy  looking 
»;^/on  a  free  people,  an  oppressed  people  instinctively  feel 
tat  they  have  inalienable  rights  ,  and  they  will  nevey  af 
terwards  be  at  rest,  until  the  enjoyment  of  these  rigfci« 
is  guarantied  to  them.  Thus  one  form  of  government, 
which  in  any  pre-eminent  degree  promotes  the  happiness 
of  man,  is  gradually  but  irresistibly  disseminating  the  prin 
ciples  of  its  constitution,  and,  from  the  very  fact  of  its  exist 
ence,  call  ng  into  being  those  trains  of  thought,  which  must 


COM1W    \-P'    »CE  BOOK  O?  THOSE.  171 

in  the  end  revolutionize  every  government  within  the  sj>nere 
of  its  influence,  under  which  the  people  are  oppressed. 

And  thus  is  it  that  the  field,  in  which  mind  may  labour, 
has  now  become  wide  as  the  limits  of  civilization.  A  doc 
trine  advanced  by  one  man,  if  it  have  any  claim  to  interest, 
is  soon  known  to  every  other  man.  The  movement  of  one 
intellect  now  sets  in  motion  the  intellects  of  millions.  We 
may  now  calculate  upon  effects,  not  upon  a  state  or  a  people, 
but  upon  the  melting,  amalgamating  mass  of  human  na 
ture.  Man  is  now  the  instrument  which  genius  wields  at 
its  will ;  it  touches  a  chord  of  the  human  heart,  and  nations 
vibrate  in  unison.  And  thus  he  who  can  rivet  the  atten 
tion  of  a  community  upon  an  elementary  principle  hitherto 
neglected  in  politics  or  morals,  or  who  can  bring  an  acknowl 
edged  principle  to  bear  upon  an  existing  abuse,  may,  by  his 
own  intellectual  might,  with  only  the  assistance  of  the 
press,  transform  the  institutions  of  an  empire  or  a  world. 

In  many  respects  the  nations  of  Christendom  collective 
ly  are  becoming  somewhat  analogous  to  our  own  Federal 
Republic.  Antiquated  distinctions  are  breaking  away,  and 
local  animosities  are  subsiding.  The  common  people  of 
different  countries  are  knowing  each  other  better,  esteem 
ing  each  other  more,  and  attaching  themselves  to  each 
other  by  various  manifestations  of  reciprocal  good  will.  It 
is  true,  every  nation  has  still  its  separate  boundaries,  and 
its  individual  interests  ;  but  the  freedom  of  commercial  in 
tercourse  is  allowing  those  interests  to  adjust  themselves 
to  each  other,  and  thus  rendering  the  causes  of  collision  of 
vastly  less  frequent  occurrence.  Local  questions  are  be 
coming  of  less,  and  general  questions  of  greater  impor 
tance.  Thanks  be  to  God,  men  have  ?t  last  begun  to 
understand  the  rights,  and  feel  for  the  wrongs,  of  each 
other.  Mountains  interposed  do  r,o*  so  *nuch  make  ene 
mies  of  nations.  Let  the  trumpet  of  alarm  be  sounded, 
and  its  notes  are  now  heard  by  every  nation,  whether  of 
Europe  or  America.  Let  ».  voice,  borne  on  the  feeblest 
Breeze,  tell  that  the  rights  of  man  are  in  danger,  and  it 
floats  over  valley  and  mountain,  across  continent  and  ocean, 
until  it  has  vibrated  on  the  ear  of  the  remotest  dweller  in 
Christendom.  Let  the  arm  of  oppression  be  raised  to  crush 
the  feeblest  nation  on  earth,  and  there  will  be  heard  every 


172  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

where,  if  not  the  shout  of  defiance,  at  least  the  deep-toned 
murmur  of  implacable  displeasure.  It  is  the  cry  of  ag 
grieved,  insulted,  much-abused  man.  It  is  Human  Nature 
waking  in  her  might  from  the  slumber  of  ages,  shaking 
herself  from  the  dust  of  antiquated  institutions,  girdi&g 
herself  for  the  combat,  and  going  forth  conquering  and  to 
conquer ;  and  wo  unto  the  man,  wo  unto  the  dynasty  s  wo 
unto  the  party,  and  wo  unto  the  policy,  on  whom  shall  fall 
the  scath  of  her  blighting  indignation. 


The  Love  of  human  Estimation. — BUCKMINSTER. 

Is  it  true  that  a  passion  of  such  powerful  and  various 
operation,  as  that  we  have  now  been  considering,  is  nr 
where  recommended  'n  Scripture  as  a  motive  of  action  ? 
Are  we  no  where  referred  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  no 
where  expostulated  with  from  a  regard  to  reputation  ?  Are 
there  no  appeals  made  by  any  of  the  messengers  of  God's 
will  to  our  sense  of  shame,  to  our  pride,  to  our  ambition, 
to  our  vanity  ?  Certain  it  is  that  such  appeals  are  at  least 
rarely  to  be  met  with.  Our  Saviour,  indeed,  seems  to  have 
thought  it  hazardous,  in  any  degree,  to  encourage  a  regard 
to  the  opinion  of  the  world  as  a  motive  to  action,  because, 
however  advantageous  might  be  its  operation  in  some  in 
stances,  where  a  higher  principle  was  wanting,  still  the 
most  casual  recommendation  of  a  sentiment  so  natural,  so 
seducing,  and  so  universal,  would  have  been  liable  to  per 
petual  misconstruction  and  abuse. 

Indeed,  no  man  can  read  the  discourses  of  our  Saviour, 
or  of  his  apostles,  without  observing  how  utterly  they  are 
at  war  with  the  spirit  of  self-aggrandizement.  Perhaps, 
however,  you  may  expect,  that  I  should  refer  you  to  ex 
amples  where  this  temper  is  clearly  censured  or  punished, 
What  think  you,  then,  of  the  history  of  Herod  Agrippa  ? 
"  On  a  set  day,"  says  the  historian, "  Herod,  arrayed  in  royal 
apparel,  sat  upon  his  throne,  and  made  an  oration  unto  the 
people.  And  the  people  gave  a  shout,  saying,  It  is  the 
voice  of  a  god,  and  not  of  a  man.  And  immediately  the 
angel  of  the  Lord  smote  him,  because  he  gave  not  God 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSK.  173 

the  glory  ;  and  he  was  eaten  of  worms,  and  gave  up  the 
ghost."  I  make  no  comments  on  this  story.  It  is  too  sol 
emn.  Think  only,  if  such  was  the  punishment  of  a  man 
for  accepting  the  idolatrous  flattery  offered  him,  can  they 
be  guiltless  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven,  who  cannot  live  but 
upon  the  honey  of  adulation,  and  whose  whole  life  is  but 
a  continual  series  of  contrivances  to  gain  the  favour  of  the 
multitude,  a  continual  preference  of  the  glory  of  themselves 
to  the  glory  of  their  Creator  ?  Is  not  this  example  of  the 
requisitions  of  the  Gospel  sufficient  ?  Read  then  the  dread 
ful  woes  denounced  against  the  Jewish  rulers,  not  merely 
because  they  did  not  receive  our  Saviour,  nor  merely  be 
cause  they  were  continually  meditating  his  destruction ; 
but  because  they  did  all  their  works  to  be  seen  of  men. 

But  as  nothing,  perhaps,  is  gained  in  point  of  practical 
improvement,  by  pushing  these  principles  of  indifference 
to  the  world  to  an  extreme,  or  in  declaiming  indiscrimi 
nately  against  any  prevailing  sentiment  of  extensive  influ 
ence,  before  we  consider  the  restrictions  under  which  the 
love  of  fame  should  be  laid  in  the  mind  of  a  Christian,  we 
will,  as  we  proposed,  endeavour  to  ascertain,  and  candidly 
to  allow,  all  those  advantages,  which  may  result  from  this 
regard  to  the  opinion  of  others,  when  more  pure  and  evan 
gelical  motives  are  either  wanting  or  not  sufficiently  es 
tablished. 

Here,  then,  we  will  allow,  that  much  of  the  real  as  well 
as  fictitious  excellence,  which  has  adorned  the  world,  may 
be  traced,  in  some  degree,  to  the  principle  of  emulation. 
We  allow,  that  it  calls  forth  the  energies  of  the  young 
mind  ;  that  it  matures  in  our  colleges  and  schools  some  of 
the  earliest  products  of  youthful  capacity  ;  and  that  it  of 
fers  incalculable  aid  to  the  lessons  and  to  the  discipline  of 
instructers.  When  we  look  at  our  libraries,  we  can  hard 
ly  find  a  volume,  which  does  not,  in  a  measure,  owe  its 
appearance  to  the  love  of  fame.  When  we  gaze  on  the 
ruins  of  ancient  magnificence,  or  the  rare  remains  of  an 
cient  skill,  we  are  obliged  to  confess,  that  we  owe  these  to 
the  influence  of  emulation.  Nay,  more,  when  we  read  the 
lives  of  great  men,  and  are  lost  in  wonder  at  their  aston 
ishing  intellectual  supremacy,  we  are  compelled  to  ac- 
knowledge,  that  for  this  we  are  partly  indebted  to  the  love 
15* 


174  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

of  fame.  We  acknowledge,  also,  that  it  often  supplies  suo» 
eessfully  the  place  of  nobler  motives  ;  and  that,  notwith 
standing  the  evils  which  grow  out  of  Us  abuse,  the  world 
would  suffer  from  its  utter  extinction.  For  the  weight  of 
public  opinion  is  sometimes  thrown  into  the  scale  of  truth. 
We  know  that  the  popular  sentiment  will  sometimes  con 
trol  the  tyranny  of  the  powerful,  and  counteract  the  influ 
ence  of  wealth  ;  that  it  restrains  sometimes  tt .-.  raadnes3 
of  lust,  and  sometimes  the  cunning  of  malevolence.  We 
are  also  sensible,  that  the  influence  of  a  regard  to  reputa 
tion  is  often  favourable  to  the  improvement  of  social  inter 
course.  To  a  deference  to  the  world's  opinion,  and  to  a 
love  of  its  good  will,  are  we  to  attribute  much  of  that  po 
liteness  and  propriety,  which  are  discoverable  in  manners, 
and  much  of  that  courtesy,  which,  by  habitual  observance, 
sheds  perhaps, at  length,  a  favourable  influence  on  the  dispo 
sition.  It  is  this,  which  brings  down  the  haughty  to  con 
descension,  and  softens  the  rough  into  gentleness.  It  is 
this  which  sometimes  checks  the  offensiveness  of  vanity, 
and  moderates  the  excess  of  selfishness.  It  causes  thou 
sands  to  appear  kind,  who  would  otherwise  be  rude, — and 
honourable,  who  would  otherwise  be  base. 

These  genial  effects  upon  the  intercourse  of  society  are 
sufficient  to  induce  us  to  retain  the  love  of  human  estima 
tion  in  the  number  of  lawful  motives.  It  was  probably  a 
view  of  some  of  these  influences  partially  supplying  the  place 
of  real  benevolence,  which  induced  the  apostle  sometimes 
to  recommend  a  regard  to  human  opinion.  He  advises  the 
Roman  converts  to  "  provide  things  honourable  in  the  eyes 
of  all  men."  To  the  Philippians,  after  recommending  all 
things  honest,  just,  pure,  and  lovely,  he  ventures  also  to 
add  "  whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report."  Nay,  more; 
he  says  not  only,  "  if  there  be  any  virtue,"  but  "  if  there 
be  any  praise,  think  on  these  things."  We  believe  this  is 
the  most  decisive  testimony  of  approbation,  which  can  be 
gathered  from  the  Scripture.  We  will  add,  also,  in  favour 
of  the  useful  operation  of  this  universal  passion,  that  it 
perhaps  cannot  be  completely  engaged,  like  all  the  other 
passions,  on  the  side  of  vice.  For  the  highest  degree  of 
moral  depravity  is  consistent  only  with  an  utter  insensi 
bility  to  the  opinion  of  the  world  ;  and  we  are  willing  to 


COMMON-PI  ACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  175 

£<*lieve,  also,  that,  were  it  net  for  this,  the  form  and  pro 
fession  of  Christianity  would  be  more  frequently  outraged 
than  it  now  is,  by  those  who  secretly  detest  it. 

And  now,  after  all  these  acknowledgments,  what  new 
merit  is  conceded  to  our  favourite  passion  ?  After  it  has 
done  its  utmost,  it  can  only  quicken  the  energies  of  the 
mind,  restrain  sometimes  the  other  passions,  afford  occa 
sional  aid  to  the  cause  of  order  and  propriety,  soften  some  of 
the  asperities  of  social  intercourse,  and  perhaps  keep  the 
sinner  from  open  and  hardened  profligacy.  But  it  cannot 
purify  the  affections,  melt  the  hardness  of  the  heart,  and 
break  its  selfishness,  or  elevate  its  desires  to  the  region  of 
purity  and  peace. 

We  have  seen  that  this  regard  to  human  estimation, 
though  a  principle  of  universal,  I  had  almost  said  of  infi 
nite  influence,  is  confined  to  very  narrow  limits  in  the 
Gospel  of  Christ.  Is  there  nothing,  then,  provided  to  sup 
ply  the  place  of  so  powerful  an  agent  in  the  formation  of 
the  human  character  ?  Is  there  nothing  left  to  awaken 
the  ambition  of  the  Christian,  to  rouse  him  from  sloth  and 
universal  indifference,  to  call  forth  the  energies  of  big 
mind,  and  to  urge  him  forward  in  the  career  of  holiness  ? 
Yes ;  if  we  will  listen  to  the  language  of  an  apostle,  whose 
history  proclaims  that  his  passions  were  not  asleep,  that  his 
emulation  was  not  quenched  by  the  profession  of  Christi 
anity,  and  whose  spirit  ever  glowed  with  a  most  divine 
enthusiasm, — I  say,  if  we  listen  to  him,  we  shall  find  that 
there  is  enough  to  stimulate  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul, 
and,  finally,  to  satiate  the  most  burning  thirst  of  glory. 
Yes,  "  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  nor  hath  it  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive,  the  things  which  God 
hath  prepared  for  them  that  love  him."  Yes,  our  whole 
progress  here,  through  all  the  varieties  of  honour  and  of 
dishonour,  of  evil  report  and  of  good  report,  is  a  spectacle 
to  angels  and  to  men.  We  are  coming  into  "  an  innumerable 
company  of  angels,  and  to  the  spirits  of  the  just  made  per 
fect,  and  to  Jesus,  the  Mediator  of  the  new  covenant,  and 
to  God,  the  Judge  of  ail."  These  have  been  the  spectators 
of  our  course,  and  from  such  we  are  to  receive  glory,  and 
honour,  and  immortality. 


176  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 


Extract  from  an  Address  on  retiring  from  the  publil 
Service  of  the  United  States  of  America. — WASH 
INGTON. 

IN  looking  forward  to  the  moment  which  is  intended  to 
terminate  the  career  of  my  public  life,  my  feelings  do  not 
permit  me  to  suspend  the  deep  acknowledgment  of  that 
debt  of  gratitude  which  I  owe  to  my  beloved  country,  foi 
the  many  honours  it  has  conferred  upon  me  ;  still  more  foi 
the  steadfast  confidence  with  which  it  has  supported  me  ; 
and  for  the  opportunities  I  have  thence  enjoyed  of  mani 
festing  my  inviolable  attachment,  by  services  faithful  and 
persevering,  though  in  usefulness  unequal  to  my  zeal 
If  benefits  have  resulted  to  our  country  from  these  services, 
let  it  always  be  remembered  to  your  praise,  as  an  instructive 
example  in  our  annals,  that,  under  circumstances  in  which 
the  passions,  agitated  in  every  direction,  were  liable  to 
mislead,  amidst  appearances  somewhat  dubious,  vicissitudes 
of  fortune  often  discouraging,  in  situations  in  which  not 
unfrequently  want  of  success  has  countenanced  the  spirit 
of  criticism, — the  constancy  of  your  support  was  the  essen 
tial  prop  of  the  efforts,  and  a  guarantee  of  the  plans,  by 
which  they  were  effected.  Profoundly  penetrated  with  this 
idea,  I  shall  carry  it  with  me  to  my  grave,  as  a  strong 
incitement  to  unceasing  prayers,  that  Heaven  may  continue 
to  you  the  choicest  tokens  of  its  beneficence ;  that  your 
union  and  brotherly  affection  may  be  perpetual ;  that  the 
free  constitution,  which  is  the  work  of  your  hands,  may  be 
sacredly  maintained ;  that  its  administration,  in  every 
department,  may  be  stamped  with  wisdom  and  virtue  ;  that, 
in  fine,  the  happiness  of  the  people  of  these  States,  under 
the  auspices  of  liberty,  may  be  made  complete,  by  so  care- 
ful  a  preservation,  and  so  prudent  a  use,  of  this  blessing, 
as  will  acquire  to  them  the  glory  of  recommending  it  to 
the  applause,  the  affection,  and  adoption,  of  every  nation 
which  is  yet  a  stranger  to  it. 

Here,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  stop.  But  a  solicitude  for 
your  welfare,  which  cannot  end  but  with  my  life,  and  the 
apprehension  of  danger,  natural  to  that  solicitude,  urge  me. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  171 

on  an  occasion  like  the  present,  to  offer  to  your  solemn 
contemplation,  and  to  recommend  to  your  frequent  review, 
some  sentiments,  which  are  the  result  of  much  reflection, 
of  no  inconsiderable  observation,  and  which  appear  to  me 
all-important  to  the  permanence  of  your  felicity  as  a  peo 
ple.  These  will  be  offered  to  you  with  the  more  freedom, 
as  you  can  only  see  in  them  the  disinterested  warnings 
of  a  parting  friend,  who  can  possibly  have  no  motive  to  bias 
his  counsel.  Nor  can  I  forget,  as  an  encouragement  to  it, 
your  indulgent  reception  of  my  sentiments  on  a  former, 
and  not  dissimilar  occasion. 


Of  all  the  dispositions  and  habits  which  lead  to  political 
prosperity,  religion  and  morality  are  indispensable  supports 
In  vain  would  that  man  claim  the  tribute  of  patriotism, 
who  should  labour,  to  subvert  these  great  pillars  of  human 
happiness — these  firmest  props  of  the  duties  of  men  and 
citizens.  The  mere  politician,  equally  with  the  pious  man, 
ought  to  respect  and  to  cherish  them.  A  volume  could  not 
trace  all  their  connexions  with  private  and  public  felicity. 
Let  it  simply  be  asked,  where  is  the  security  for  property, 
for  reputation,  for  life,  if  the  sense  of  religious  obligation 
desert  the  oaths,  which  are  the  instruments  of  investiga 
tion  in  courts  of  justice  ?  And  let  us  with  caution  indulge 
the  supposition,  that  morality  can  be  maintained  without 
religion.  Whatever  may  be  conceded  to  the  influence  of 
refined  education  on  minds  of  peculiar  structure,  reason 
*tid  experience  both  forbid  us  to  expect  that  national 
morality  can  prevail  in  exclusion  of  religious  principles. 

It  is  substantially  true,  that  virtue  or  morality  is  a  ne 
cessary  spring  of  popular  government.  The  rule,  indeed, 
extends  with  more  or  less  force  to  every  species  of  free 
government.  Who,  that  is  a  sincere  friend  to  it,  can  look 
with  indifference  upon  attempts  to  shake  the  foundation  of 
the  fabric  ? 

Promote,  then,  as  an  object  of  primary  importance, 
institutions  for  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge.  In 
proportion  as  the  structure  of  a  government  gives  force  to 
public  opinion,  it  is  essential  that  public  opinion  should  be 
enlightened. 


178  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

Observe  good  faith  and  justice  towards  all  nations;  cui« 
tivato  peace  and  harmony  with  all ;  religion  and  morality 
enjoin  this  conduct;  and  can  it  be  that  good  policy  does  not 
equally  enjoin  it  ?  It  will  be  worthy  of  a  free,  enlight 
ened,  and,  at  no  distant  period,  a  great  nation,  to  give  to 
mankind  the  magnanimous  and  too  novel  example  of  a  peo 
ple  always  guided  by  an  exalted  justice  and  benevolence 
Who  can  doubt,  that,  in  the  course  of  time  and  things,  the 
fruits  of  such  a  plan  would  richly  repay  any  temporary 
advantages  which  might  be  lost  by  a  steady  adherence  tc 
it  ?  Can  it  be,  that  Providence  has  not  connected  the  per 
manent  felicity  of  a  nation  with  its  virtue  ?  The  experi 
ment,  at  least,  is  recommended  by  every  sentiment  which 
ennobles  human  nature.  Alas !  k  it  rendered  imoossible  by 
its  vices  ? 


In  offering  to  you,  my  countrymen,  these  counsels  of  an 
old  and  affectionate  friend,  I  dare  not  hope  they  will  make 
the  strong  and  lasting  impression  I  could  wish  ;  that  they 
will  control  the  usual  current  of  the  passions,  or  prevent 
our  nation  from  running  the  course  which  has  hitherto 
narked  the  destiny  of  empires.  But  if  I  may  even  flatter 
myself  that  they  may  be  productive  of  some  partial  bene 
fit,  some  occasional  good  ;  that  they  may  now  and  then 
recur,  to  moderate  the  fury  of  party  spirit,  to  warn  against 
the  mischiefs  of  foreign  intrigue,  to  guard  against  the  im 
postures  of  pretended  patriotism  ;  this  hope  will  be  a  full 
recompense  for  that  solicitude  for  your  welfare,  by  which 
they  have  been  dictated. 

How  far,  in  the  discharge  of  my  official  duties,  I  have 
been  guided  by  the  principles  which  have  been  delineated, 
the  public  records  and  other  evidences  of  my  conduct 
must  witness  to  you  and  the  world.  To  myself  the  assur 
ance  of  my  own  conscience  is,  that  I  have  al  least 
BELIEVED  myself  to  be  guided  by  them. 

Though,  in  reviewing  the  incidents  of  my  administration, 
I  am  unconscious  of  intentional  error,  I  am  nevertheless 
too  sensible  of  my  defects  not  to  think  it  probable  that  1 
may  have  committed  many  errors.  Whatever  they  may 
be,  I  fervently  beseech  the  Almighty  to  avert  and  mitigate 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  179 

the  evils  to  which  they  may  tend.  I  shall  also  carry  with 
me  the  hope,  that  my  country  will  never  cease  to  view 
luem  with  indulgence  ;  and  that,  after  forty-five  years  of 
my  life  dedicated  to  its  service  with  an  upright  zeal,  the 
faults  of  incompetent  abilities  will  be  consigned  to  oblivion, 
as  myself  must  soon  be  to  the  mansions  of  rest. 

Relying  on  its  kindness  in  this,  as  in  other  things,  and 
actuated  by  that  fervent  love  towards  it,  which  is  so  natu 
ral  to  a  man  who  views  in  it  the  native  soil  of  himself 
and  his  progenitors  for  several  generations,  I  anticipate 
with  pleasing  expectation  that  retreat,  in  which  1  promise 
myself  to  realize,  without  alloy,  the  sweet  enjoyment  of 
partaking,  in  the  midst  of  my  fellow  citizens,  the  benign 
influence  of  good  laws  under  a  free  government, — the  ever 
favourite  object  of  my  heart, — and  the  happy  reward,  as  I 
trust,  of  our  mutual  cares,  labours,  and  dangers. 

United  States,  September  nth,  1796. 


Speech  over  the  Grave  of  Black  Buffaloe,  Chief  of  the 
Teton  Tribe  of  Indians. — BIG  ELK  MAHA  CHIEF. 

Do  not  grieve.  Misfortunes  will  happen  to  the  wisest 
and  best  men.  Death  will  come,  and  always  comes  out  of 
season.  It  is  the  command  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  all 
nations  and  people  must  obey.  What  has  passed,  and  can 
not  be  prevented,  should  not  be  grieved  for.  Be  not 
discouraged  or  displeased,  then,  that,  in  visiting  your  father 
here,  you  have  lost  your  chief.  A  misfortune  of  this  kind 
may  never  again  befall  you ;  but  this  would  have  attended 
you,  perhaps,  at  your  own  village.  Five  times  have  I 
visited  this  land,  and  never  returned  with  sorrow  or  pain. 
Misfortunes  do  not  flourish  particularly  in  our  path.  They 
grow  every  where.  What  a  misfortune  for  me,  that  I 
could  not  have  died  this  day,  instead  of  the  chief  that  lies 
before  us !  The  trifling  loss  my  nation  would  have  sus 
tained  in  my  death,  would  have  been  doubly  paid  for  by 
the  honours  of  my  burial.  They  would  have  wiped  off 
every  thing  like  regret.  Instead  of  being  covered  with  a 
cloud  of  sorrow,  my  warriors  would  have  felt  the  sunshine 


180  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

of  joy  in  their  hearts.  To  me  it  would  have  been  a  most 
glorious  occurrence.  Hereafter,  when  I  die  at  home, 
instead  of  a  noble  grave  and  a  grand  procession — the  rolling 
music  and  the  thundering  cannon — with  a  flag  waving  at 
my  head, — I  shall  be  wrapt  in  a  robe — an  old  robe  per 
haps — and  hoisted  on  a  slender  scaffold  to  the  whistling 
winds,  soon  to  be  blown  to  the  earth — my  flesh  to  be  de 
voured  by  the  wolves,  and  my  bones  rattled  on  the  plain 
by  the  wild  beasts. 

Chief  of  the  soldiers* — your  labours  have  not  been  in 
vain.  Your  attention  shall  not  be  forgotten.  My  nation 
shall  know  the  respect  that  is  paid  over  the  dead.  When 
I  return  I  will  echo  the  sound  of  your  guns. 


Speech  of  HO-NA-YU-WUS,  or  FARMER'S  BROTHKR. 

THE  sachems,  chiefs,  and  warriors  of  the  Seneca  nation 
to  the  sachems  and  chiefs  assembled  about  the  great 
council-fire  of  the  state  of  New  York. 

Brothers — As  you  are  once  more  assembled  in  council 
for  the  purpose  of  doing  honour  to  yourselves  and  justice 
to  your  country,  we,  your  brothers,  the  sachems,  chiefs, 
and  warriors  of  the  Seneca  nation,  request  you  to  open 
your  ears,  and  give  attention  to  our  voice  and  wishes. 

Brothers — You  will  recollect  the  late  contest  between 
you  and  your  father,  the  great  king  of  England.  This 
contest  threw  the  inhabitants  of  this  whole  island  into  a 
great  tumult  and  commotion,  like  a  raging  whirlwind, 
which  tears  up  the  trees,  and  tosses  to  and  fro  the  leaves, 
so  that  no  one  knows  from  whence  they  come,  or  when 
they  will  fall. 

Brothers — This  whirlwind  was  so  directed  by  the  Great 
Spirit  above,  as  to  throw  into  our  arms  two  of  your  infant 
children,  Jasper  Parrish  and  Horatio  Jones.  We  adopted 
them  into  our  families,  and  made  them  our  children.  We 
loved  them  and  nourished  them.  They  lived  with  us 
many  years.  At  length  the  Great  Spirit  spoke  to  the 

*  Colonel  Miller. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  181 

whirlwind — and  it  was  still."  A  clear  and  uninterrupted 
sky  appeared.  The  path  of  peace  was  opened,  and  the 
chain  of  friendship  was  once  more  made  bright.  Then 
these,  our  adopted  children,  left  us  to  seek  their  relations. 
We  wished  them  to  remain  among  us,  and  promised,  if  they 
would  return  and  live  in  our  country,  to  give  each  of  them 
a  seat  of  land  for  them  and  their  children  to  sit  down  upon. 

Brothers — They  have  returned,  and  have  for  several 
years  past  been  serviceable  to  us  as  interpreters.  We  still 
feel  our  hearts  beat  with  affection  for  them,  and  now  wish 
to  fulfil  the  promise  we  made  them,  and  to  reward  them 
for  their  services.  We  have  therefore  made  up  our  minds 
to  give  them  a  seat  of  two  square  miles  of  land  lying  on  the 
outlet  of  Lake  Erie,  about  three  miles  below  Black  Rock. 

Brothers — We  have  now  made  known  to  you  our  minds. 
We  expect  and  earnestly  request,  that  you  will  permit  our 
friends  to  receive  this  our  gift,  and  will  make  the  same  good 
to  them,  according  to  the  laws  and  customs  of  your  nation. 

Brothers — Why  should  you  hesitate  to  make  our  mindf 
easy  with  regard  to  this  our  request  ?  To  you  it  is  but  a 
little  thing ;  and  have  you  not  complied  with  the  request, 
and  confirmed  the  gift,  of  our  brothers  the  Oneidas,  the 
Onondagas,  and  Cayugas,  to  their  interpreters  ?  and  shall 
we  ask,  and  not  be  heard  ? 

Brothers — We  send  you  this  our  speech,  to  which  we 
expect  your  answer  before  the  breaking  up  of  your  great 
council-fire. 


Abdication  of  Napoleon,  and  Retirement  of  Lafayette.  — 
TICKNOR. 

AT  last,  on  the  21st  of  June,  Bonaparte  arrived  from 
Waterloo,  a  defeated  and  a  desperate  man.  He  was 
already  determined  to  dissolve  the  representative  body, 
and,  assuming  the  whole  dictatorship  of  the  country,  play 
at  least  one  deep  and  bloody  game  for  power  and  success. 
Some  of  his  council,  and  among  the  rest  Regnault  de  St 


*  God  said,  Let  here  be  light ;  and  there  was  light. 
16 


182  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Jean  d'Angely,  who  were  opposed  to  this  violent  measure, 
informed  Lafayette  that  it  would  be  taken  instantly,  and 
that  in  two  hours  the  chamber  of  representatives  would 
cease  to  exist.  There  was,  of  course,  not  a  moment  left 
for  consultation  or  advice  ;  the  emperor  or  the  chamber 
must  fall  that  morning.  As  soon,  therefore,  as  the  session 
was  opened,  Lafayette,  with  the  same  clear  courage,  and 
in  the  same  spirit  of  self-devotion,  with  which  he  had 
stood  at  the  bar  of  the  national  assemoly  in  1792,  jnmedi- 
ately  ascended  the  tribune,  for  the  first  time  for  twenty 
years,  and  said  these  few  words  ;  which,  assuredly,  would 
have  been  his  death  warrant,  if  he  had  not  been  supported 
in  them  by  the  assembly  he  addressed  : 

"  When,  after  an  interval  of  many  years,  I  raise  a  voice, 
which  the  friends  of  free  institutions  will  still  recognise,  I 
feel  myself  called  upon  to  speak  to  you  only  of  the  dan 
gers  of  the  country,  which  you  alone  have  now  the  power 
to  save.  Sinister  intimations  have  been  heard  ;  they  are 
unfortunately  confirmed.  This,  therefore,  is  the  momenl 
for  us  to  gather  round  the  ancient  tri-coloured  standard  ; 
the  standard  of  '89  ;  the  standard  of  freedom,  of  equal 
rights,  and  of  public  order.  Permit,  then,  gentlemen,  a 
veteran  in  this  sacred  cause,  one  who  has  always  been  a 
sti  anger  to  the  spirit  of  faction,  to  offer  you  a  few  prepar 
atory  resolutions,  whose  absolute  necessity,  I  trust,  you 
feel  as  I  do." 

These  resolutions  declared  the  chamber  to  be  in  perma 
nent  session,  and  all  attempts  to  dissolve  it,  high  treason  ; 
and  they  also  called  for  the  four  principal  ministers  to  come 
to  the  chamber  and  explain  the  state  of  affairs.  Bonaparte 
is  said  to  have,  been  much  agitated  when  word  was  brought 
him  simply  that  Lafayette  was  in  the  tribune ;  and  his 
fears  were  certainly  not  511  founded  ;  for  these  resolutions, 
which  were  at  once  adopted,  both  by  the  representative! 
and  the  peers,  substantially  divested  him  of  his  power,  anC 
left  him  merely  a  factious  and  dangerous  individual  in  tin 
midst  of  a  distracted  state. 

He  hesitated  during  the  whole  day  as  to  the  course  h 
should  pursue  ;  but,  at  last,  hoping  that  the  eloquence  ot 
Lucien,  which  had  savec'  him  on  the  18th  Brumaire,  might 
be  found  no  less  effectual-  x>w,  he.  sent  him ,  with  three  other 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF    PROBE.  183 

ministers  to  the  chamber,  just  at  the  beginning  of  the 
evening  ;  having  first  obtained  a  vote  that  all  should  pass 
in  secret  session  It  was  certainly  a  most  perilous  crisis. 
Reports  were  spread  abroad  that  the  populace  of  the  faux- 
bourgs  had  been  excited,  and  were  arming  themselves.  It 
was  believed,  too,  with  no  little  probability,  that  Bonaparte 
would  march  against  the  chamber,  as  he  had  formerly 
marched  against  the  council  of  five  hundred,  and  dis 
perse  them  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.  At  all  events,  it  was 
a  contest  for  existence,  and  no  man  could  feel  his  life  safe. 
At  this  moment  Lucien  rose,  and,  in  the  doubtful  and 
gloomy  light  which  two  vast  torches  shed  through  the 
hall,  and  over  the  pale  and  anxious  features  of  the  mem 
bers,  made  a  partial  exposition  of  the  state  of  affairs,  and 
the  projects  and  hopes  he  still  entertained.  A  deep  and 
painful  silence  followed.  At  length  Mr.  Jay,  well  known 
above  twenty  years  ago  in  Boston,  under  the  assumed 
name  of  Renaud,  as  a  teacher  of  the  French  language,  and 
an  able  writer  in  one  of  the  public  newspapers  of  that  city, 
ascended  the  tribune,  and,  in  a  long  and  vehement  speech 
of  great  eloquence,  exposed  the  dangers  of  the  country, 
and  ended  by  proposing  to  send  a  deputation  to  the  empe 
ror,  demanding  his  abdication.  Lucien  immediately  fol 
lowed.  He  never  showed  more  power,  or  a  more  impas 
sioned  eloquence.  His  purpose  was  to  prove  that  France 
was  still  devoted  to  the  emperor,  and  that  its  resources 
were  still  equal  to  a  contest  with  the  allies.  "  It  is  not 
Napoleon,"  he  cried,  "  that  is  attacked  ;  it  is  the  French 
people.  And  a  proposition  is  now  made  to  this  people  to 
abandon  their  emperor ;  to  expose  the  French  nation, 
before  the  tribunal  of  the  world,  to  a  severe  judgment  on 
its  levity  and  inconstancy.  No,  sir,  the  honour  of  this 
nation  shall  never  be  so  compromised !"  On  hearing 
these  words,  Lafayette  rose.  He  did  not  go  to  the  tribune, 
but  spoke,  contrary  to  rule  and  custom,  from  his  place. 
His  manner  was  perfectly  calm,  but  marked  with  the  very 
spirit  of  rebuke ;  and  he  addressed  himself,  not  to  the 
president,  but  directly  to  Lucien :  "The  assertion,  which 
has  just  been  uttered,  is  a  calumny.  Who  shall  dare  to 
accuse  the  French  nation  of  inconstancy  to  the  emperor 
Napoleon  ?  That  nation  had  followed  his  bloody  footsteps 


184  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

through  the  sands  of  Egypt,  and  through  the  wastes  of 
Russia ;  over  fifty  fields  of  battle  ;  in  disaster  as  faithfully 
as  in  victory ;  and  it  is  for  having  thus  devotedly  followed 
him,  that  we  now  mourn  the  blood  of  three  millions  of 
Frenchmen."  These  few  words  made  an  impression  on 
the  assembly,  which  could  not  be  mistaken ;  and,  as 
Lafayette  ended,  Lucien  himself  bowed  respectfully  to 
him,  and,  without  resuming  his  speech,  sat  down. 

It  was  determined  to  appoint  a  deputation  of  five  mem 
bers  from  each  chamber,  to  meet  the  grand  council  of  the 
ministers,  and  deliberate  in  committee  on  the  measures  to 
be  taken.  This  body  sat  during  the  night,  under  the 
presidency  of  Cambaceres,  arch-chancellor  of  the  empire 
Lafayette  moved,  that  a  deputation  should  be  sent  to  Napo 
leon,  demanding  his  abdication.  The  arch-chancellor 
refused  to  put  the  motion,  but  it  was  as  much  decided  as  if 
it  had  been  formally  carried.  The  next  morning,  June 
22d,  the  emperor  sent  in  his  abdication,  and  Lafayette  was 
on  the  committee  that  went  to  the  Thuilleries  to  thank 
him  for  it  on  behalf  of  the  nation. 

A  crude,  provisional  government  was  now  estit  lished 
by  the  two  chambers,  which  lasted  only  a  few  days,  and 
whose  principal  measure  was  the  sending  a  deputation  to 
the  allied  powers,  of  which  Lafayette  was  the  head,  to 
endeavour  to  stop  the  invasion  of  France.  This  of  course 
failed,  as  had  been  foreseen  ;  Paris  surrendered  on  the  3d  of 
July,  and  what  remained  of  the  representative  government, 
which  Bonaparte  had  created  for  his  own  purposes,  but 
which  Lafayette  had  turned  against  him,  was  soon  after 
wards  dissolved.  Its  doors  were  found  guarded  on  the 
morning  of  the  8th,  but  by  what  authority  has  never  been 
known  ;  and  the  members  met  at  Lafayette's  house,  enterec. 
their  formal  protest,  and  went  quietly  to  their  own  homes 

Lafayette  retired  immediately  to  La  Grange,  from  which, 
iii  fact,  he  had  been  only  a  month  absent,  and  resumed  at 
once  his  agricultural  employments.  There,  in  the  midst 
of  a  family  of  above  twenty  children  and  grand  childret, 
who  all  look  up  to  him  as  their  patriarchal  chief,  he  livt» 
in  a  simple  and  sincere  happiness,  rarely  granted  to  thw 
who  have  borne  such  a  leading  part  in  the  trouble!)  s,xa 
sufferings  of  a  great  period  of  political  revolution  f  .  .. 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  185 

1817,  he  has  been  twic3  elected  to  the  chamber  of  depu 
ties,  and  in  all  his  votes  has  shown  himself  constant  to  his 
ancient  principles.  When  the  ministry  proposed  to  estab 
lish  a  censorship  of  the  press,  he  resisted  them  in  an  able 
speech  ;  but  Lafayette  was  never  a  factious  man,  and 
therefore  he  has  never  made  any  further  opposition  to  the 
present  order  of  things  in  France,  than  his  conscience  and 
his  official  place  required.  That  he  does  not  approve  the 
present 'constitution  of  the  monarchy,  or  the  political  prin 
ciples  and  management  of  the  existing  government,  his 
votes  as  a  deputy,  and  his  whole  life,  plainly  show  ;  and 
that  his  steady  and  temperate  opposition  is  matter  of  serious 
anxiety  to  the  family  now  on  the  throne  is  apparent,  from 
their  conduct  towards  him  during  the  last  nine  years,  and 
their  management  of  the  public  press  since  he  has  been  in 
this  country.  If  he  chose  to  make  himself  a  tribune  of  the 
people,  he  might  at  any  moment  become  formidable ;  but 
he  trusts  rather  to  the  progress  of  general  intelligence  and 
political  wisdom  throughout  the  nation,  which  he  feels 
sure  will  at  last  bring  his  oountry  to  the  practically  free 
government,  he  has  always  been  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life 
to  purchase  for  it.  To  this  great  result  he  looks  forward, 
as  Madame  de  Stael  has  well  said  of  him,  with  the  entire 
confidence  a  pious  man  enjoys  in  a  future  life  ;  but  when 
he  feels  anxious  and  impatient  to  hasten  onward  to  it,  he 
finds  a  wisdom  tempered  by  long  experience  stirring  within 
him,  which  warns  him,  in  the  beautiful  language  of  Mil 
ton,  that  "  they  also  serve,  who  only  stand  and  wait  " 


Extract  from  "Hyperion."* — JOSIAH  QUINCT,  Juw. 

WHEN    I    reflect  on   the    exalted   character   of    the 
antient  Britons,  on  the  fortitude  of  our  illustrious  prede- 


*  The  first  part  of  this  extract  was  published  in  the  Boston  Gazette 
in  September,  1767,  on  receiving  information  of  threatening  import  from 
England ;  the  remainder  appeared  in  October,  1768,  when  British 
troops  had  landed  in  Boston,  and  taken  possession  of  Fineuil  Hall, 
under  circumstances  intended  to  inspire  the  pero''-  •  li  alarm  and 
terror. — ED. 

is  » 


i86  COMMON-PLACE  BOK  OF  PROSE. 

cessors,  on  the  noble  struggles  of  the  late  memorable 
period,  and  from  these  reflections,  when,  by  a  natural 
transition,  1  contemplate  the  gloomy  aspect  of  the  present 
day,  my  heart  is  alternately  torn  with  doubt  and  hope, 
despondency  and  terror.  Can  the  true,  generous  magna 
nimity  of  British  heroes  be  entirely  lost  in  their  degene 
rate  progeny  ?  Is  the  genius  of  liberty,  which  so  late 
inflamed  our  bosoms,  fled  forever  ? 

An  attentive  observer  of  the  deportment  of  some  partic 
ular  pet-sons  in  this  metropolis  would  be  apt  to  imagine,  that 
the  graid  point  was  gained;  that  the  spirit  of  the  people 
was  entirely  broken  to  the  yoke  ;  that  all  America  was 
subjugated  to  bondage.  Already  the  minions  of  power  in 
fancy  fatten  and  grow  wanton  on  the  spoils  of  the  land. 
They  insolently  toss  the  head,  and  put  on  the  air  of  con 
temptuous  disdain.  In  the  imaginary  possession  of  lord 
ships  and  dominions,  these  potentates  and  powers  dare  tell 
us,  that  our  only  hope  is  to  crouch,  to  cower  under,  and  to 
kiss,  the  iron  rod  of  oppression.  Precious  sample  of  the 
meek  and  lowly  temper  of  those  who  are  destined  to  be  our 
lords  and  masters ! 

Be  not  deceived,  my  countrymen.  Believe  not  these 
venal  hirelings,  when  they  would  cajole  you  by  their  sub- 
tilties  into  submission,  or  frighten  you  by  their  vapourings 
into  compliance.  When  they  strive  to  flatter  you  by  the 
terms  "  moderation  and  prudence,"  tell  them  that  calmness 
and  deliberation  are  to  guide  the  judgment ;  courage  and 
intrepidity  command  the  action.  When  they  endeavour  to 
make  us  "perceive  our  inability  to  oppose  our  mother 
country,"  let  us  boldly  answer  ; — In  defence  of  our  civil 
and  religious  rights,  we  dare  oppose  the  world  ;  with  the 
God  of  armies  on  our  side,  even  the  God  who  fought  our 
fathers'  battles,  we  fear  not  the  hour  of  trial,  though  the 
hosts  of  our  enemies  should  cover  the  field  like  locusts. 
If  this  be  enthusiasm,  we  will  live  and  die  enthusiasts. 

Blandishments  will  not  fascinate  us,  nor  will  threats  of 
a  "  halter"  intimidate.  For,  under  God,  we  are  deter 
mined,  that  wheresoever,  whensoever,  or  howsoever  we 
shall  be  called  to  make  our  exit,  we  will  die  freemen, 
Well  do  we  know  that  all  the  regalia  of  this  world  cannot 
dignify  the  death  of  a  villain,  nor  diminish  the  ignominy, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  187 

with  which  a  slave  shall  quit  existence.  Neither  can  it 
taint  the  unblemished  honour  of  a  son  of  freedom,  though 
he  should  make  his  departure  on  the  already  prepared  gib 
bet,  or  be  dragged  to  the  newly  erected  scaffold  for  execu 
tion.  With  the  plaudits  of  his  conscience  he  will  go  off 
the  stage.  A  crown  of  joy  and  immortality  shall  be  his 
reward.  The  history  of  his  life  his  children  shall  vene 
rate.  The  virtues  of  their  sire  shall  excite  their  emula 
tion. 


If  there  ever  was  a  time,  this  is  the  hour,  for  America!  s 
to  rouse  themselves,  and  exert  every  ability.  Their  all  is 
at  a  hazard,  and  the  die  of  fate  spins  doubtful.  In  vain 
do  we  talk  of  magnanimity  and  heroism,  in  vain  do  we 
trace  a  descent  from  the  worthies  of  the  earth,  if  we  inherit 
not  the  spirit  of  our  ancestors.  Who  is  he  that  boasteth 
of  his  patriotism  ?  Has  he  vanquished  luxury,  and  sub 
dued  the  worldly  pride  of  his  heart  ?  Is  he  not  still  drink 
ing  the  poisonous  draught,  and  rolling  the  sweet  morsel 
under  his  tongue  ?  He  who  cannot  conquer  the  little  van 
ity  of  his  heart,  and  deny  the  delicacy  of  a  debauched 
palate,  let  him  lay  his  hand  upon  his  mouth,  and  his  mouth 
in  the  dust. 

Now  is  the  time  for  this  people  to  summon  every  aid, 
human  and  divine  ;  to  exhibit  every  moral  virtue,  and  call 
forth  every  Christian  grace.  The  wisdom  of  the  serpent, 
the  innocence  of  the  dove,  and  the  intrepidity  of  the  lion, 
with  the  blessing  of  God,  will  yet  save  us  from  the  jaws 
of  destruction. 

Where  is  the  boasted  liberty  of  Englishmen,  if  property 
may  be  disposed  of,  charters  suspended,  assemblies  dissolv 
ed,  and  every  valued  right  annihilated,  at  the  uncontrol 
lable  will  of  an  external  power  ?  Does  not  every  man,  who 
feels  one  ethereal  spark  yet  glowing  in  his  bosom,  find  his 
indignation  kindle  at  the  bare  imagination  of  such  wrongs  ? 
What  would  be  our  sentiments  were  this  imagination  real 
ized. 

Did  the  blood  of  the  ancient  Britons  swell  our  veins,  did 
the  spirit  of  our  forefathers  inhabit  our  breasts,  should  wo 
hesitate  a  moment  in  preferring  death  to  a  miserable  exiai- 


188  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ence  iii  bondage  ?  Did  we  reflect  on  their  toils,  their 
dangers,  their  fiery  trials,  the  thought  would  inspire 
unconquerable  courage. 

Who  has  the  front  to  ask,  Wherefore  do  you  :omplain  I 
Who  dares  assert,  that  every  thing  worth  living  for  is  not 
lost,  when  a  nation  is  enslaved  ?  Are  not  pensioners,  sti 
pendiaries  and  salary-men,  unknown  before,  hourly  multi 
plying  upon  us,  to  riot  in  the  spoils  of  miserable  America  ? 
Does  not  every  eastern  gale  waft  us  some  new  insect,  even 
of  that  devouring  kind,  which  eat  up  every  green  thing  ? 
Is  not  the  bread  taken  out  of  the  children's  mcuths  and 
given  unto  the  dogs  ?  Are  not  our  estates  given  to  corrupt 
sycophants,  without  a  design,  or  even  a  pretence,  of  solicit 
ing  our  assent ;  and  our  lives  put  into  the  hands  of  those 
whose  tender  mercies  are  cruelties  ?  Has  not  an  author 
ity  in  a  distant  land,  in  the  most  public  manner,  proclaimed 
a  right  of  disposing  of  the  all  of  Americans  ?  In  short, 
what  have  we  to  lose  ?  What  have  we  to  fear  ?  Are  not 
our  distresses  more  than  we  can  bear  ?  And,  to  finish  all, 
are  not  our  cities,  in  a  time  of  profound  peace,  filled  with 
standing  armies,  to  preclude  from  us  that  last  solace  of  the 
wretched — to  open  their  mouths  in  complaint,  and  send 
forth  their  cries  in  bitterness  of  heart  ? 

But  is  there  no  ray  of  hope  ?  Is  not  Great  Britain 
inhabited  by  the  children  of  those  renowned  barons,  who 
waded  through  seas  of  crimson  gore  to  establish  their  lib 
erty  ?  and  will  they  not  allow  us,  their  fellow-men,  to 
enjoy  that  freedom  which  we  claim  from  nature,  which  is 
confirmed  by  our  constitution,  and  which  they  pretend  so 
highly  to  value  ?  Were  a  tyrant  to  conquer  us,  the  chains 
of  slavery,  when  opposition  should  become  useless,  might 
be  supportable ;  but  to  be  shackled  by  Englishmen, — by 
our  equals, — is  not  to  be  borne.  By  the  sweat  of  our 
brow  we  earn  the  little  we  possess  ;  from  nature  we  derive 
the  common  rights  of  man ;  and  by  charter  we  claim  the 
liberties  of  Britons.  Shall  we,  dare  we,  pusillanimously 
surrender  our  birthright  ?  Is  the  obligation  to  our  fathers 
discharged  ?  Is  the  debt  we  owe  posterity  paid  ?  Answer 
me,  thou  coward,  who  hidest  thyself  in  the  hour  of  trial ; 
If  there  is  no  reward  in  this  life,  no  prize  of  glory  in  the 
next,  capable  of  animating  thy  dastard  soul,  think  and 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  189 

tremble,  thou  miscreant!   at  the  whips  and  stripes  thy 
master  shall  lash  thee  with  on  earth, — and  the  flames  and 
scorpions  thy  second  master  shall  torment  thee  with  here 
after ! 

Oh,  my  countrymen !  what  will  our  children  say,  when 
they  read  the  history  of  these  times,  should  they  find  that 
we  tamely  gave  away,  without  one  noble  struggle,  the 
nxDst  invaluable  of  earthly  blessings !  As  they  drag  the 
galling  chain,  will  they  not  execrate  us  ?  If  we  have  any 
respect  for  things  sacred,  any  regard  to  the  dearest  treas 
ure  on  earth  ;  if  we  have  one  tender  sentiment  for  poster 
ity  ;  if  we  would  not  be  despised  by  the  whole  world ; — • 
let  us,  in  the  most  open,  solemn  manner,  and  with  deter 
mined  fortitude,  swear — We  will  die,  if  we  cannot  live 
freemen ! 

Be  not  lulled,  my  countrymen,  with  vain  imaginations 
or  idle  fancies.  To  hope  for  the  protection  of  Heaven, 
without  doing  our  duty,  and  exerting  ourselves  as  becomes 
men,  is  to  mock  the  Deity.  Wherefore  had  man  his  reason, 
if  it  were  not  to  direct  him  ?  wherefore  his  strength,  if  it 
be  not  his  protection  ?  To  banish  folly  and  luxury,  correct 
vice  and  immorality,  and  stand  immoveable  in  the  freedom 
in  which  we  are  free  indeed,  is  eminently  the  duty  of  each 
individual  at  this  day.  When  this  is  done,  we  may  ration 
ally  hope  for  an  answer  to  our  prayers — for  the  whole 
counsel  of  God,  and  the  invincible  armour  of  the  Almighty. 

However  righteous  our  cause,  we  cannot,  in  this  period 
of  the  world,  expect  a  miraculous  salvation.  Heaven  will 
undoubtedly  assist  us  if  we  act  like  men ;  but  to  expect 
protection  from  above,  while  we  are  enervated  by  luxury, 
and  slothful  in  the  exertion  of  those  abilities,  with  which 
we  are  endued,  is  an  expectation  vain  and  foolish.  With 
the  smiles  of  Heaven,  virtue,  unanimity  and  firmness  will 
ensure  success.  While  we  have  equity,  justice  and  God 
on  our  side,  Tyranny,  spiritual  or  temporal,  shall  never 
ride  triumphant  in  a  land  inhabited  by  Englishmen. 


190  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


The  Sabbath  in  JVew  England." — Miss  SEDGWICK. 

THE  observance  of  the  Sabbath  began  with  the  Puri« 
tans,  as  it  still  does  with  a  great  portion  of  their  descend 
ants,  on  Saturday  night.  At  the  going  down  of  the  sun 
on  Saturday,  all  temporal  affairs  were  suspended ;  and  so 
zealously  did  our  fathers  maintain  the  letter,  as  well  as  the 
spirit  of  the  law,  that,  according  to  a  vulgar  tradition  in 
Connecticut,  no  beer  was  brewed  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
week,  lest  it  should  presume  to  work  on  Sunday. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  tendency  of  the  age  is  to 
laxity  ;  and  so  rapidly  is  the  wholesome  strictness  of  prim 
itive  times  abating,  that,  should  some  antiquary,  fifty  years 
hence,  in  exploring  his  garret  rubbish,  chance  to  cast  his 
eye  on  our  humble  pages,  he  may  be  surprised  to  learn, 
that,  even  now,  the  Sabbath  is  observed,  in  the  interior  of 
New  England,  with  an  almost  Judaical  severity. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  an  uncommon  bustle  is  apparent. 
The  great  class  of  procrastinators  are  hurrying  to  and  fro 
to  complete  the  lagging  business  of  the  week.  The  good 
mothers,  like  Burns'  matron,  are  plying  their  needles, 
making  "  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new  ;"  while 
the  domestics,  or  help,  (we  prefer  the  national  descriptive 
term,)  are  wielding,  with  might  and  main,  their  brooms  and 
mops,  to  make  all  tidy  for  the  Sabbath. 

As  the  day  declines,  the  hum  of  labour  dies  away,  and, 
after  the  sun  is  set,  perfect  stillness  reigns  in  every  well- 
ordered  household,  and  not  a  foot-fall  is  heard  in  the  village 
street.  It  cannot  be  denied,  that  even  the  most  scriptu 
ral,  missing  the  excitement  of  their  ordinary  occupations, 
anticipate  their  usual  bed-time.  The  obvious  inference 
from  this  fact  is  skilfully  avoided  by  certain  ingenious 
reasoners,  who  allege,  that  the  constitution  was  originally 


*  This  description  is  executed  with  admirable  truth  and  humour ; 
yet  it  has,  we  fear,  in  these  times  of  disregard  to  the  sacredness  of  the 
institution,  a  slight  tendency  to  make  the  ancient  strict  observance  of 
he  Sabbath  appear  somewhat  ridiculous.  It  is  not  to  be  regretted,  that 
the  austerity  and  gloom,  which  pervaded  the  character  of  the  Puritans, 
has  entirely  disappeared  ; — but  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  so  much,  wliica 
was  truly  religious,  should  have  fled  along  with  it. — ED 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  191 

so  organized,  as  to  require  an  extra  quantity  of  sleep  on 
every  seventh  night.  We  recommend  it  to  the  curious  to 
inquire,  how  this  peculiarity  was  adjusted,  when  the  first 
day  of  the  week  was  changed  from  Saturday  to  Sunday. 

The  Sabbath  morning  is  as  peaceful  as  the  first  hallowed 
day.  Not  a  human  sound  is  heard  without  the  dwellings, 
an;l,  but  for  the  lowing  of  the  herds,  the  crowing  of  the 
cocks,  and  the  gossiping  of  the  birds,  animal  life  would 
seem  to  be  extinct,  till,  at  the  bidding  of  the  church-going 
bell,  the  old  and  young  issue  from  their  habitations,  and, 
with  solemn  demeanor,  bend  their  measured  steps  to  the 
meeting-house  ; — the  families  of  the  minister,  the  squire, 
the  doctor,  the  merchants,  the  modest  gentry  of  the  vil 
lage,  and  the  mechanic  and  labourer,  all  arrayed  in 
their  best,  all  meeting  on  even  ground,  and  all  with  that 
consciousness  of  independence  and  equality,  which  breaks 
down  the  pride  of  the  rich,  and  rescues  the  poor  from  ser- 
vility,  envy,  and  discontent.  If  a  morning  salutation  ig 
reciprocated,  it  is  in  a  suppressed  voice  ;  and  if,  perchance, 
nature,  in  some  reckless  urchin,  burst  forth  in  laughter — 
"  My  dear,  you  forget  it's  Sunday,"  is  the  ever  ready 
reproof. 

Though  every  face  wears  a  solemn  aspect,  yet  we  once 
chanced  to  see  even  a  deacon's  muscles  relaxed  by  the 
wit  of  a  neighbour,  and  heard  him  allege,  in  a  half-depre- 
ca-ing,  half-laughing  voice,  "  The  squire  is  so  droll,  that  a 
body  must  laugh,  though  it  be  Sabbath-day." 

The  farmer's  ample  wagon,  and  the  little  one-horse 
vehicle,  bring  in  all  who  reside  at  an  inconvenient  walk 
ing  distance, — that  is  to  say,  in  our  riding  community,  half 
a  mile  from  the  church.  It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  to  those  who 
love  to  note  the  happy  peculiarities  of  their  own  land,  to 
see  the  farmers'  daughters,  blooming,  intelligent,  well- 
bred,  pouring  out  of  these  homely  coaches,  with  their  nice 
white  gowns,  prunel  shoes,  Leghorn  hats,  fans  and  para 
sols,  and  the  spruce  young  men,  with  their  plaited  ruffles, 
blue  coats,  and  yellow  buttons.  The  whole  community 
meet  as  one  religious  family,  to  offer  their  devotions  at  the 
common  altar.  If  there  is  an  outlaw  from  the  society, — 
a  luckless  wight,  whose  vagrant  taste  has  never  been  sub 
dued, — he  may  be  seen  stealing  along  the  margin  of  soino 


192  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PHOSE. 

little  brook,  far  away  from  the    condemning  observatio 
and  troublesome  admonitions  of  his  fellows. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  or  (to  borrow  a  phrase  de 
scriptive  of  his  feelings,  who  first  used  it)  "  when  the  Sab 
bath  begins  to  abate,"  the  children  cluster  about  the  win 
dows.  Their  eyes  wander  from  their  catechisms  to  the 
western  sky,  and,  though  it  seems  to  them  as  if  the  sun 
would  never  disappear,  his  broad  disk  does  slowly  sink  be 
hind  the  mountain  ;  and,  while  his  last  ray  still  lingers  on 
the  eastern  summits,  merry  voices  break  forth,  and  the 
ground  resounds  with  bounding  footsteps.  The  village 
belle  arrays  herself  for  her  twilight  walk  ;  the  boys  gather 
on  "  the  green  ;"  the  lads  and  girls  throng  to  the  "  singing 
school ;"  while  some  coy  maiden  lingers  at  home,  awaiting 
her  expected  suitor ;  and  all  enter  upon  the  pleasures  of 
the  evening  with  as  keen  a  relish  as  if  the  day  had  been  a 
preparatory  penance. 


Description  of  the  Capture  of  a  Whale. — COOPER. 

THE  cockswain  cast  a  cool  glance  at  the  crests  of  foam 
that  were  breaking  over  the  tops  of  the  billows  within  a 
few  yards  of  where  their  boat  was  riding,  and  called  aloud 
to  his  men — 

"  Pull  a  stroke  or  two ;  away  with  her  into  dark 
water." 

The  drop  of  the  oars  resembled  the  movements  of  a  nice 
machine,  and  the  light  boat  skimmed  along  the  water  like 
a  duck,  that  approaches  to  the  very  brink  of  some  imminent 
danger,  and  then  avoids  it  at  the  most  critical  moment,  ap 
parently  without  an  effort.  While  this  neces3ary  move 
ment  was  making,  Barnstable  arose,  and  surveyed  the  cliffs 
with  keen  eyes, -and  then,  turning  once  more  in  disappoint 
ment  from  his  search,  he  said — 

"  Pull  more  from  the  land,  and  let  hur  run  down,  at  an 
easy  stroke,  to  the  schooner.  Keep  a  Ijokout  at  the  cliffs, 
boys ;  it  is  possible  that  they  are  stowed  in  some  of  the 
holes  in  the  rocks,  for  it's  no  daylight  business  the) 
are  on." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  193 

The  order  was  promptly  obeyed,  and  they  had  glided 
along  for  near  a  mile  in  this  manner,  in  the  most  profound 
silence,  when  suddenly  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  heavy 
rush  of  air,  and  a  dash  of  water,  seemingly  at  no  great  dis 
tance  from  them. 

"  By  heaven  !  Tom,"  cried  Barnstable,  starting,  "  there 
is  the  blow  of  a  whale." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  returned  the  cockswain,  with  undis 
turbed  composure  ;  "  here  is  his  spout,  not  half  a  mila 
to  seaward  ;  the  easterly  gale  has  driven  the  creater  to 
leeward,  and  he  begins  to  find  himself  in  shoal  water. 
He's  been  sleeping,  while  he  should  have  been  working  to 
windward  !" 

"  The  fellow  takes  it  coolly,  too  !  he's  in  no  hurry  to  get 
an  offing." 

"  I  rather  conclude,  sir,"  said  the  cockswain,  rolling 
over  his  tobacco  in  his  mouth  very  composedly,  while  his 
little  sunken  eyes  began  to  twinkle  with  pleasure  at  the 
sight,  "  the  gentleman  has  lost  his  reckoning,  and  don't 
know  which  way  to  head,  to  take  himself  back  into  blue 
water." 

"  'Tis  a  fin-back  !"  exclaimed  the  lieutenant ;  "  he  will 
soon  make  head-way,  and  be  off." 

"  No,  sir,  'tis  a  right  whale,"  answered  Tom  ;  "  I  saw 
his  spout ;  he  threw  up  a  pair  of  as  pretty  rainbows  as  a 
Christian  would  wish  to  look  at.  He's  a  raal  oil-butt,  that 
fellow !" 

Barnstable  laughed,  turned  himself  away  from  the  tempt 
ing  sight,  and  tried  to  look  at  the  cliffs ;  and  then  uncon 
sciously  bent  his  eyes  again  on  the  sluggish  animal,  who 
was  throwing  his  huge  carcass  at  times  for  many  feet  from 
the  water,  in  idle  gambols.  The  temptation  for  sport,  and 
the  recollection  of  his  early  habits,  at  length  prevailed  over 
Lis  anxiety  in  behalt  of  his  friends,  and  the  young  officer 
inqu.fed  of  his  cockswain — 

"  Is  there  any  whale-line  in  the  boat  to  make  fast  to  that 
harpoon  which  you  bear  about  with  you  in  fair  weather  or 
foul  ?" 

"  I  never  trust  the  boat  from  the  schooner  without  part 
of  a  shot,  sir,"  returned  the  cockswain ;  "  there  is  some 
thing  nateral  in  the  sight  of  a  tub  to  my  old  eyes." 
17 


194  COMMON-1'LACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

Barnstable  looked  at  his  watch,  and  again  at  the  cliffs, 
when  he  exclaimed  in  joyous  tones — 

"  Give  strong  way,  my  hearties !  There  seems  nothing 
better  to  be  done  ;  let  us  have  a  stroke  of  a  harpoon  at  tha 
impudent  rascal." 

The  men  shouted  spontaneously,  and  the  old  cockswain 
suffered  his  solemn  visage  to  relax  into  a  small  laugh,  while 
the  whale-boat  sprang  forward  like  a  courser  for  the  goal. 
During  the  few  minutes  they  were  pulling  towards  their 
game,  long  Tom  arose  from  his  crouching  attitude  in  the 
stern  sheets,  and  transferred  his  huge  frame  to  the  bows 
of  the  boat,  where  he  made  such  preparaticn  to  strike  the 
whale  as  the  occasion  required.  The  tub,  containing  about 
half  of  a  whale-line,  was  placed  at  the  feet  of  Barnstable, 
who  had  been  preparing  an  oar  to  steer  with,  in  place  of 
the  rudder,  which  was  unshipped  in  order  that,  if  neces 
sary,  the  boat  might  be  whirled  round  when  not  ad 
vancing. 

Their  approach  was  utterly  unnoticed  by  the  monster 
of  the  deep,  who  continued  to  amuse  himself  with  throw-  ' 
ing  the  water  in  two  circular  spouts  high  into  the  air,  oc 
casionally  flourishing  the  broad  flukes  of  his  tail  with  grace 
ful  but  terrific  force,  until  the  hardy  seamen  were  within 
a  few  hundred  feet  of  him,  when  he  suddenly  cast  his  head 
downwards,  and,  without  an  apparent  effort,  reared  his  im 
mense  body  for  many  feet  above  the  water,  waving  his  tail 
violently,  and  producing  a  whizzing  noise,  that  sounded 
like  the  rushing  of  winds.  The  cockswain  stood  erect, 
poising  his  harpoon,  ready  for  the  blow ;  but,  when  he 
beheld  the  creature  assume  this  formidable  attitude,  he 
waved  his  hand  to  his  commander,  who  instantly  signed  to 
his  men  to  cease  rowing.  In  this  situation  the  sportsmen 
rested  a  few  moments,  while  the  whale  struck  several 
blows  on  the  water  in  rapid  succession,  the  noise  of  which 
re-echoed  along  the  cliffs,  like  the  hollow  reports  of  so 
many  cannon.  After  this  wanton  exhibition  of  his  terribie 
strength,  the  monster  sunk  again  into  his  native  element 
and  slowly  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  his  pursuers. 

"  Which  way  did  he  head,  Tom  ?"  cried  Barnstable,  th« 
moment  the  whale  was  out  of  sight. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE.  196 

•'  Pretty  much  up  and  down,  sir,"  returned  the  cock 
swain,  whose  eye  was  gradually  brightening  with  the  ex< 
citement  of  the  sport ;  "  he'll  soon  run  his  nose  against 
the  bottom,  if  he  stands  long  on  that  course,  and  will  be 
glad  to  get  another  snuff  of  pure  air ;  send  her  a  few  fath 
oms  to  starboard,  sir,  and  I  promise  we  shall  not  be  out  of 
his  track." 

The  conjecture  of  the  experienced  old  seaman  proved 
true,  for  in  a  few  minutes  the  water  broke  near  them,  and 
another  spout  was  cast  into  the  air,  when  the  huge  animal 
rushed  for  half  his  length  in  the  same  direction,  and  fell 
on  the  sea  with  a  turbulence  and  foam  equal  to  that,  which 
is  produced  by  the  launching  of  a  vessel,  for  the  first  time, 
into  its  proper  element.  After  this  evolution,  the  whale 
rolled  heavily,  and  seemed  to  rest  from  further  efforts. 

His  slightest  movements  were  closely  watched  by  Barn- 
stable  and  his  cockswain,  and,  when  he  was  in  a  state  of 
comparative  rest,  the  former  gave  a  signal  to  his  crew  to 
ply  their  oars  once  more.  A  few  long  and  vigorous  strokes 
sent  the  boat  directly  up  to  the  broadside  of  the  whale, 
with  its  bows  pointing  towards  one  of  the  fins,  which  was 
at  times,  as  the  animal  yielded  sluggishly  to  the  action  of 
the  waves,  exposed  to  view.  The  cockswain  poised  his 
harpoon  with  much  precision,  and  then  darted  it  from  him 
with  a  violence  that  buried  the  iron  in  the  body  of  their 
foe.  The  instant  the  blow  was  made,  long  Tom  shouted 
with  singular  earnestness — 

"  Starn  all !" 

"  Stern  all !"  echoed  Barnstable ;  when  the  obedient 
seamen,  by  united  efforts,  forced  the  boat  in  a  backward 
direction,  beyond  the  reach  of  any  blow  from  their  formi 
dable  antagonist.  The  alarmed  animal,  however,  meditated 
no  such  resistance  ;  ignorant  of  his  own  power,  and  of  the 
insignificance  of  his  enemies,  he  sought  refuge  in  flight. 
One  moment  of  stupid  surprise  succeeded  the  entrance  of 
the  iron,  when  he  cast  his  huge  tail  into  the  air  with  a  vi 
olence  that  threw  the  sea  around  him  into  increased  com 
motion,  and  then  disappeared,  with  the  quickness  of  light 
ning,  amid  a  cloud  of  foam 

"  Snub  him  !"  shouted  Birnstable  ;  "  hold  on,  Tom  ;  he 
rises  already." 


196  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  replied  the  composed  cockswain,  seizing 
the  line  which  was  running  out  of  the  boat  with  a  velocity 
that  rendered  such  a  manoeuvre  rather  hazardous,  and  caus 
ing  it  to  yield  more  gradually  round  the  large  loggerhead, 
that  was  placed  in  the  bows  of  the  boat  for  that  purpose. 
Presently  the  line  stretched  forward,  and,  rising  to  the  sur 
face  with  tremulous  vibrations,  it  indicated  the  direction 
in  whicli  the  animal  might  be  expected  to  re-appear.  Barn- 
stable  had  cast  the  bows  of  the  boat  towards  that  point,  be 
fore  the  terrified  and  wounded  victim  rose  once  more  to  the 
surface,  whose  time  was,  however,  no  longer  wasted  in  his 
sports,  but  who  cast  the  waters  aside  as  he  forced  his  way, 
with  prodigious  velocity,  along  their  surface.  The  boat  was 
dragged  violently  in  his  wake,  and  cut  through  the  billows 
with  a  terrific  rapidity,  that  at  moments  appeared  to  bury 
the  slight  fabric  in  the  ocean.  When  long  Tom  beheld 
his  victim  throwing  his  spouts  on  high  again,  he  pointed 
with  exultation  to  the  jetting  fluid,  which  was  streaked 
with  the  deep  red  of  blood,  and  cried — 

"  Ay,  I've  touched  the  fellow's  life  !  It  must  be  more 
than  two  foot  of  blubber  that  stops  my  iron  from  reaching 
the  life  of  any  whale  that  ever  sculled  the  ocean  !" 

"  I  believe  you  have  saved  yourself  the  trouble  of  using 
the  bayonet  you  have  rigged  for  a  lance,"  said  his  com 
mander,  who  entered  into  the  sport  with  all  the  ardour  of 
one,  whose  youth  had  been  chiefly  passed  in  such  pursuits ; 
"  feel  your  line,  Master  Coffin  ;  can  we  haul  alongside  of 
our  enemy  ?  I  like  not  the  course  he  is  steering,  as  he 
tows  us  from  the  schooner." 

"  'Tis  the  creator's  way,  sir,"  said  the  cockswain  ;  "  you 
know  they  need  the  air  in  their  nostrils  when  they  run, 
the  same  as  a  man  ;  but  lay  hold,  boys,  and  let  us  haul  up 
to  him  " 

The  seamen  now  seized  their  whale-line,  and  slowly 
drew  their  boat  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  tail  of  the  fish, 
whose  progress  became  sensibly  less  rapid  as  he  grew  weak 
with  the  loss  of  blood.  In  a  few  minutes  he  stopped  run 
ning,  and  appeared  to  roll  uneasily  on  the  water,  as  if  suf 
fering  the  agony  of  death. 

"  Shall  we  pull  in  and  finish  him,  Tom  ?"  cried  Barn 
stable  ;  "  a  few  sets  from  your  bayonet  would  do  it" 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PRG'SE.  197 

The  cockswain  stood  examining  his  game  with  cool  dis 
cretion,  and  replied  to  this  interrogatory — 

"  No,  sir,  no — he's  going  into  his  flurry ;  there's  no  oc* 
casion  for  disgr?  "ing  ourselves  by  using  a  soldier's  weapon 
in  taking  a  wha  j.  Starn  off,  sir,  starn  off !  the  creator's 
in  his  flurry !" 

The  warning  of  the  prudent  cockswain  was  promptly 
obeyed,  and  the  boat  cautiously  drew  off  to  a  distance,  leav 
ing  to  the  animal  a  clear  space  while  under  its  dying  ago 
nies.  From  a  state  of  perfect  rest,  the  terrible  monster 
threw  its  tail  on  high  as  when  in  sport,  but  its  blows  were 
trebled  in  rapidity  and  violence,  till  all  was  hid  from  view 
by  a  pyramid  of  foam,  that  was  deeply  dyed  with  blood. 
The  roarings  of  the  fish,  were  like  the  bellowings  of  a  herd 
of  bulls,  and,  to  one  who  was  ignorant  of  the  fact,  it  would 
have  appeared  as  if  a  thousand  monsters  were  engaged  fti 
deadly  combat  behind  the  bloody  mist  that  obstructed  the 
view.  Gradually  these  effects  subsided,  and,  when  the  dis 
coloured  water  again  settled  down  to  the  long  and  regular 
swell  of  the  ocean,  the  fish  was  seen  exhausted,  and  yield 
ing  passively  to  its  fate.  As  life  departed,  the  enormous 
black  mass  rolled  to  one  side,  and  when  the  white  and  glis 
tening  skin  of  the  belly  became  apparent,  the  seamen  well 
knew  that  their  victory  was  achieved. 


Lake  George. — CLUB-ROOM. 

"  It  was  a  still 

And  calmy  bay,  on  the  one  side  sheltered 
With  the  brode  shadow  of  an  hoarie  hill ; 
On  the  other  side  an  high  rock  toured  still.' 


"  Waiting  to  pass,  he  saw  whereas  did  swim 
Along  the  shore,  as  swift  as  glaunce  of  eye, 
A  little  gondelay,  bedecked  trim, 
With  boughs  and  arbours  woven  cunningly, 
That  like  a  little  forest  seemed  outwardly  ; 
And  therein  sat  a  lady  fresh  and  faire." 

FAERIE  QCEENE. 

IF  any  of  my  readers  have  ever  visited  these  transparent 
waters,  and  have  wound  their  way  among  the  thousand 
little  woody  islands  which  sprinkle  their  surface  from  For/ 
17* 


198  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

George  to  the  Falls  of  Ticonderoga,  they  may  have  remar* 
ed,  just  beyond  Bolton,  at  the  bottom  of  a  beautiful  inlet, 
or  bay,  formed  by  two  craggy  promontories  of  the  western 
shore,  a  small  dwelling-house,  upon  which  the  fingers  of 
Time  seem  to  have  wrought  more  ruinously  than  man,  iu 
the  pride  of  his  dominion,  is  accustomed  to  allow  them.  It 
stands  lone  and  desolate.  Storms  have  shattered  its  roof, 
and  wild  shrubs  have  already  sprung  up  '•»  dark  profusion 
over  its  avenues ;  while  the  white-columned  portico,  whirl) 
was  wont  to  look  so  cheering  to  the  eye  of  the  passenger, 
has  put  on  the  damp  and  mouldering  garment  of  decay. 

Some  years  ago  business  led  me  to  the  Canadian  frontier 
by  that  route.  I  travelled  alone  in  a  light  wagon.  A  part 
of  the  road,  which  was  extremely  rugged,  stretched  along 
the  bold  shore  of  the  lake  ;  sometimes  winding  up  the 
craggy  side  of  the  mountain,  and  sometimes  running  close 
to  the  precipice,  which,  from  the  height  of  two  or  three 
hundred  feet,  flung  its  huge  and  dusky  shadow  into  the 
mirror  beneath.  As  I  was  anxious  to  reach  my  inn  before 
night-fall,  and  blue  mists  were  already  beginning  to  gather 
upon  the  lake,  I  quickened  the  pace  of  my  horse  wherever 
the  smoothness  of  the  road  would  permit.  I  had  just  pass 
ed  a  young  foot-traveller,  and  was  turning  a  sharp  corner 
formed  by  a  rock  shelving  out  of  the  mountain's  side,  when 
my  horse  started  suddenly,  and,  carrying  the  wheel  of  my 
wagon  over  a  fallen  fragment,  dashed  me  to  the  ground.  I 
fell  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  where  its  surface  was  already 
considerably  inclined.  I  seized  upon  a  small  projection  of 
the  rock.  It  loosened,  and  gave  way  under  my  grasp.  I 
slipped  downward,  and  found  not  even  a  bramble  within 
reach,  when  I  felt  myself  suddenly  stayed  by  I  knew  not 
what.  It  was  the  young  man  1  had  just  passed,  who 
sprang  forward,  and,  not  without  imminent  hazard  of  fol 
lowing  me  in  my  fall,  caught  the  skirt  of  my  coat  at  the 
instant  I  was  rolling  over  the  brink.  Supporting  himself 
by  the  frail  bough  of  a  dwarf-oak  which  grew  a  little  above, 
he  held  me  hanging  by  a  thread  over  "  the  dark  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death."  The  fragment  which  I  had  loos 
ened  fell,  and  the  sullen  splash  of  the  water  which  re. 
ceived  it  just  reached  my  ear.  From  that  moment  I  be 
came  insensible. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  199 

On  recovery  I  found  myself  on  a  bed.  Three  or  four 
faces  were  bending  over  me  witb  expressions  of  the  deep 
est  concern,  and  a  beautiful  girl  was  bathing  my  temples. 
I  looked  her  my  thanks — it  was  all  I  could.  Presently 
the  door  opened,  and  a  voice  anxiously  asked — "  How  is 
he  ? — will  he  live  ?"  "  Hush  !"  she  replied,  in  a  low  whis 
per,  "  He  is  well  enough  to  hear  you."  It  was  my  young 
preserver,  who  entered,  and  brought  with  him  the  doctor 
of  the  neighbouring  village.  It  were  tedious  to  detail  all 
the  symptoms  of  inward  injury,  and  prognostics  of  impend 
ing  fever,  which  were  found  about  me  by  this  rustic  son 
of  yEsculapius.  Let  it  suffice  that  my  limbs  were  pro 
nounced  unbroken,  though  badly  bruised — that  I  submit 
ted  quietly  to  remedies,  which  I  had  not  strength  to  resist 
— in  short,  that  I  was  well  enough  in  a  few  days,  in  spite 
of  all  circumstance  of  delay,  to  enjoy  the  society  of  the 
kind  friends  who  attended  me,  and  the  beauties  of  their 
romantic  residence. 

The  name  of  my  host  was  Burton — a  robust  and  well- 
looking  man,  just  entering  life's  downward  path.  He  was 
by  birth  an  Englishman,  and  had  been  a  soldier  in  his 
youth — served  in  America  during  our  revolutionary  war — 
was  taken  prisoner,  with  many  of  his  countrymen,  at  Ti- 
conderoga — fell  in  love  with  a  young  woman  in  that  neigh 
bourhood,  whom  he  married  soon  after  the  declaration  of 
peace — and,  having  acquired  a  competent  fortune  in  mer 
chandise,  hastened  to  indulge  an  Englishman's  taste  for 
rural  pursuits  in  this  delightful  spot. 

Mary  Burton,  his  only  daughter,  was  a  beautiful  girl  just 
turned  of  eighteen ;  adorned  with  all  the  sensibilities  of 
her  sex  ;  and,  if  she  wanted  the  accomplishments  of  a  fine 
lady,  she  had  that,  which  more  than  compensates  for  them 
all — uniform  simplicity  and  gayety  of  heart.  It  was  she 
whotr  I  first  discovered  among  the  group  standing  about 
me,  watching  with  tender  anxiety  the  earliest  symptoms 
of  returning  life 

But  my  readers  would  perhaps  know  something  of  my 
youthful  preserver.  He  was  not  of  the  Burton  family, 
though  constantly  with  them.  His  name  was  Arthur  Mur 
ray.  Of  good  parentage  and  liberal  attainments,  a  boyisli 
romance  first  led  him  to  that  neighbourhood;  for  his  con- 


SOO  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

tinuance  there,  you  have  perhaps  already   guessed   that 
something  might  be  attributed  to  the  charms  of  Mary  Bui 
ton.     The  old  folks  looked  with  pleasure  on  the  growing 
attachment  between  them,  and  had  recently  granted  a  glad 
consent  to  their  union. 

The  only  other  inmates  of  the  parlour  were  two  rosy- 
cheeked  boys,  many  years  younger,  yet  constant  compan 
ions  of  the  kind-hearted  Arthur.  Nor  let  me  exclude  from 
the  family  roll,  Rover,  the  Jarge  Newfoundland  dog.,  who 
was  allowed  to  participate  in  most  of  the  family  pleasures. 

It  was  an  uncommonly  happy  circle.  Separated  from 
the  rest  of  mankind — unsullied  by  the  cold,  selfish  pleasures 
of  the  city — the  absorbing  cares  of  avarice  and  pride — 
home  was  their  world  ; — they  indulged  not  a  wish  beyond 
"  the  happy  valley,"  but  lived  peaceful  and  contented, 
with  all  the  sympathies  of  life  wrapped  up  in  the  little 
compass  of  a  few  loving  hearts.  If  this  be  seclusion,  who 
would  exchange  it  for  the  refined  vanities  of  fashion — the 
turmoils  of  interest  and  ambition — the  modish  sensibilities 
which  wear  the  semblance  of  feeling,  and  obliterate  the 
feeling  itself! 

And  then  the  scenery  about  them  was  so  exquisitely 
touching  !  In  the  freshness  of  the  dawn,  I  used  to  delight, 
with  Rover  only  by  my  side,  to  climb  the  neighbouring 
hill,  and  catch  the  first  ruddy  tint  that  gleamed  upon  the 
lake — and  at  noon  to  stretch  myself  in  some  shady  recess, 
and  watch  the  white  sail,  now  lost  behind  the  bold  head 
land,  now  gliding  among  the  trees,  and  now  cutting;  the 
clear  expanse  of  water — or,  in  the  stillness  of  night,  broken 
only  by  the  moan  of  the  sad  whip-poor-will,  and  the  fret 
of  waters,  to  muse  upon  the  wilJness  of  the  scene,  and 
commune  with  unearthly  forms,  which  seemed  to  be  flitting 
in  the  moonbeam  ; — but,  most  of  all,  I  delighted,  on  a  fine 
afternoon,  to  join  the  little  family  party,  in  Arthur's  pleas 
ure-boat,  sailing  from  island  to  island,  each  beauty  present 
ing  itself  in  ever  new  and  varying  lights,  and  the  sweet, 
artless  song  of  Mary,  who  seemed  to  be  the  fairy  spirit  of 
the  lake,  warbling  in  my  ear.  And  I  would  no',  even 
now,  mingled  as  my  recollections  are  with  melancholy  and 
sorrow,  I  would  not,  for  any  earthly  good,  suffer  the  mem 
ory  of  this  delicious  period  to  fade  upon  the  tablet  of  my 


COMMON-PLA(JE    BOOIi   OF  PROSE.  201 

heart.     It  was  one  of  the  few,  few  green  and  sunny  spots, 
which  lie  scattered  over  the  dark  waste  of  time. 

But  the  day  at  length  arrived,  when  the  imperious  calls 
of  business — that  perpetual  intruder  on  the  poetry  of  life — • 
must  tear  me  from  the  friends  and  scenes  which  I  so  dear 
ly  loved.  I  had  already  lingered  much  longer  on  the  hos 
pitality  of  the  Burtons  than  necessity  required ;  and  I 
know  not  when  I  should  have  left  them,  had  I  waited  till 
either  my  own  inclination,  or  their  friendly  importunities, 
had  ceased.  I  bade  adieu — but  not  without  a  willing  prom 
ise  to  visit  them  once  more  on  my  return. 

About  three  weeks  elapsed.  I  had  despatched  my  busi 
ness,  and  was  returning  homeward  light-hearted  and  free, 
when,  after  toiling  up  a  long  and  dusty  hill,  I  caught  sight 
again,  at  a  few  miles'  distance,  of  the  green,  refreshing  val 
ley,  and  the  pure  crystal  within  it.  My  pulse  beat  high 
with  expectation.  My  horse  had  not  forgotten  the  hospitality 
of  the  Burtons,  and  we  rapidly  approached  these  well-re 
membered  scenes.  As  I  descended  the  last  hill,  and  some 
time  before  I  reached  the  house,  Rover  came  bounding 
along,  with  every  demonstration  of  joy,  to  welcome  my  re 
turn.  Upon  entering,  the  domestics,  who  were  making 
ready  their  evening  repast,  informed  me,  that  the  whole 
family  had  gone  upon  the  water  in  Arthur's  pleasure- 
boat. 

Taking  Rover  with  me,  I  strayed  down  to  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  their  landing-place,  and  seated  myself  on  a 
cliff,  which  overlooked  the  lake.  The  waters  of  Lake 
George  are  peculiarly  transparent.  I  have  often  looked 
out  of  a  boat  upon  its  pebbly  bed,  and  thought  I  might 
easily  have  waded  to  the  shore,  when  in  truth  my  oar's 
length  could  not  reach  the  bottom.  It  was  from  this  singular 
beauty,  as  well  as  the  tout  ensemble  of  witching  scenery 
about  it,  that  the  Indians,  who  formerly  inhabited  the  adja 
cent  territories,  believed  the  bosom  of  the  lake  to  be  the 
abode  of  the  Great  Spirit ;  and  the  French  priests,  who 
came  to  convert  them,  infected  with  the  superstition  of  the 
place,  named  it  the  Holy  Water  ;  and,  either  imagining  it 
to  be  uncommonly  pure,  or  else  believing  it  to  be  really 
endowed  with  a  peculiar  sanctity,  used  to  send  vessels  fill 
ed  with  it  to  their  native  country,  to  be  used  in  the  sacred 


202  COMMON-PLACE    UOOK    OF  PROSE. 

rites  of  their  church.  This  afternoon  was  remarkablj 
calm  aud  cloudless.  The  opposite  shore  hung  in  the  wa 
ter  with  such  truth  and  life  of  expression,  that  it  looked 
like  the  scenery  of  another  world,  calmer  and  more  lovely 
than  our  own. 

Presently,  however,  a  breeze  sprung  from  the  east.  The 
smooth  surface  just  curled  beneath  its  kiss ;  and,  in  a  short 
time,  I  observed  the  full  sail  of  the  pleasure-boat  emerging 
at  no  great  distance  from  behind  a  little  knoll,  that  had 
concealed  it.  It  was  shaping  its  homeward  course.  The 
sun  was  fast  declining  towards  the  western  mountain — upon 
whose  summit  was  piled  a  thick  mass  of  snowy  clouds. 
Every  thing  promised  a  glorious  sunset. 

J  sat  wrapped  in  the  dream  of  expectation,  measuring 
the  long  ripple  which  the  boat  left  upon  the  lake,  and  think 
ing,  within  myself,  whether  they  could  reach  home  before 
dusk.  I  turned  towards  the  sun,  to  judge  from  his  height 
how  many  minutes  the  light  of  day  had  yet  to  live.  I  was 
immediately  struck  by  the  uncommon  richness  of  the  white 
fleece,  which  was  rolling  itself,  volume  upon  volume,  into 
a  thousand  wild,  fantastic  shapes.  At  the  same  moment,  a 
small  black  cloud  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  out  of  the  moun 
tain.  As  it  rose,  it  swelled,  and  spread  itself,  like  a  pall, 
over  the  rich  mass  of  vapours,  effacing  one  by  one  the 
beauties  of  the  gorgeous  spectacle.  The  wind  freshened 
from  the  east — but  the  thunder-cloud  still  steered  against 
it,  and  sailed  on,  in  sullen  majesty,  like  some  dusky  spirit, 
regardless  of  the  opposing  element.  The  sun  was  obscured, 
and  a  cold  shade  thrown  over  the  lake.  The  leaves  rustled 
through  the  forest  with  a  noise  like  the  long  roll  of  the 
ocean  on  some  distant  beach,  and  a  dull,  low  moaning  seem 
ed  to  move  upon  the  waters.  All  nature  portended  one  of 
those  tremendous  storms,  which  there,  in  seasons  of  the 
profoundest  calm,  pour  in  a  moment  out  of  the  hollows  of 
the  surrounding  mountains.  I  looked  back  anxiously  for 
my  friends.  Their  bark  had  neared  the  bay,  and  was  still 
gallantly  cleaving  the  waves.  I  thought  I  could  distin 
guish  Arthur  at  the  helm,  proudly  steering  his  little  treas 
ure,  fearful  but  for  those  whom  he  loved  dearer  than  life. 
I  waved  my  handkerchief,  and  't  was  answered.  Rover 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  203 

stood  just  oeiow  me,  snuffing  the  air,  and  wagging  his  taiJ 
in  silent  expectation. 

The  heavens  were  now  completely  overcast — the  thun 
ders  rolled  heavily,  nearer  and  nearer,  and  big  round  drops 
splashed  here  and  there  upon  the  water.  Presently  there 
was  a  blinding  flash,  and  an  explosion  shaking  the  cliff  to 
its  very  root.  The  long,  broken  peal,  that  followed,  rever 
berated  from  crag  to  crag,  and  died  away  in  the  far  dis 
tance.  There  was  a  momentary  pause  ; — the  gates  of 
heaven  were  loosed,  and  the  water  fell  in  sheets,  as  if 
another  lake  were  emptying  itself  from  the  sky.  I  could 
just  discern  the  little  bark  through  the  thick  rain.  In  spite 
of  the  fury  of  the  storm,  it  gained  its  way,  and  had  already 
reached  the  entrance  to  its  harbour.  A  few  moments 
more,  and  it  was  safe.  While  I  was  yet  looking  at  it,  a 
•sudden  gust  of  wind  rushed  out  of  the  west.  The  boat 
siojiped  for  an  instant,  as  if  fixed  to  the  spot — and  then,  with 
a  slight  tremulous  motion,  settled  into  the  waves. 

Rover,  who  sat  watching  its  progress  from  a  point  be 
neath,  set  up  a  wild  howl,  and  dashed  into  the  water.  I 
instinctively  followed,  leaping  from  point  to  point — slipping 
among  the  rocks — catching  at  weeds  and  briers,  which 
sprang  out  of  the  crevices — nor  was  it  till  I  stood  upon  the 
very  margin  of  the  lake,  that  I  reflected  on  the  rashness 
of  my  design ; — I  was  wholly  unable  to  swim.  Rover, 
however,  bore  him  stoutly  from  the  shore,  and  had  almost 
reached  the  spot ;  but  not  a  trace  of  the  vessel  could  be 
«een.  The  torrents  of  rain  ceased,  and  I  could  now  clearly 
descry  a  human  figure  emerging  from  the  waves — it  was 
Arthur — and  he  dragged  after  him,  from  the  bottom,  the 
dear  object,  who  clung  to  him  when  they  sunk.  Ro 
ver  now  reached  them,  and,  with  all  the  sagacity  of  his 
tribe,  seizing  the  long  tresses  of  Mary  in  his  mouth,  so  aa 
to  lift  her  head  out  of  the  water,  bore  her  triumphantly  to 
ward  the  shore.  Arthur  swam  by  her  side.  I  could  only 
wait  for  them  on  the  shore.  They  were  now  within  a  few 
yards  of  land,  when  Arthur's  strength  began  to  fail.  Poor 
Arthur  sunk.  He  rose  again — made  a  few  feeble  strokes 
• — and  the  waters  again  covered  him ; — he  rose — endeav 
oured  to  speak,  cast  a  mournful  look  upon  Mary — folded 


204  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

his  arms — and  sunk, — forever.  A  few  noiseless  bubbles 
struggled  to  the  surface,  and  his  spirit  mingled  with  the 
air. 

Those  who  have  stood  by  the  bed-side  of  a  dying  brother, 
and  watched  the  last  faint  struggle  with  death, — the  cold 
damps  gathering  upon  the  brow — the  fixing  eye — the  con 
vulsive  gasp — without  the  power  to  repress  a  single  groan, — - 
have  felt  all  that  was  labouring  in  my  heart.  He  was  a 
fellow  being — a  friend — my  benefactor — and  he  sunk  with 
in  a  few  feet  of  me  into  a  watery  grave. 

But  it  was  no  time  to  indulge  the  selfishness  of  sorrow. 
Rover  had  come  to  land,  with  the  body  of  his  mistress  pa'e 
and  cold.  I  took  it  up,  and  bore  it  to  the  house.  The  ser 
vants  were  in  a  state  of  distraction  ;  it  was  with  difficulty 
I  could  persuade  them  to  use  necessary  means  for  the  re 
covery  of  the  unfortunate  Mary.  After  much  labour,  she 
began  to  breathe,  and  a  few  deep  groans  marked  the  un 
willingness  with  which  life  returned  to  its  deserted  tene 
ment.  Good  God,  thought  I,  what  a  cruelty  do  I  not  com 
mit  in  restoring  this  wretched  maid  to  a  desolate  existence  I 
Surely  she  had  better,  far  better,  die — and  sleep  quietly 
in  her  grave,  than  revive  to  see  a  few  more  miserable 
years,  parentless — brotherless — alone — not  a  friend  on 
earth  to  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  life.  I  almost  repented 
what  I  had  done.  Yet  what  right  had  I  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  the  mysteries  of  Providence  ?  It  has  pleased  God  to  in  • 
terpose  miraculously  for  her  preservation  : — let  not  man 
•  attempt  to  thwart  his  just,  inscrutable  designs  ! 

We  redoubled  our  efforts.  In  a  little  time  she  seemed 
partially  to  have  recovered  her  senses.  She  looked  wildly 
round,  and,  extending  her  feeble  hand  towards  mine,  cried, 
with  a  faint  voice,  "  Arthur  !"  I  pressed  her  hand — my 
heart  was  too  full  to  speak.  Alas !  she  did  not  know  the  touch 
— but,  fixing  her  glazed  eye  upon  me,  repeated  the  name 
of  Arthur.  "  It  is  not  Arthur,"  said  I — and  the  tears  gush 
ed  as  I  spoke.  "  Oh  where  is  he  ? — where  are  they  all  ?" — 
and  then,  as  if  the  memory  of  what  had  passed  had  suddenly 
flashed  upon  her  mind,  she  shrieked  out,  and  fell  senseless 
away.  I  could  restrain  my  feelings  no  longer,  but,  leaving 
her  in  the  charge  of  the  weeping  domestics,  hurried  out 
of  the  room. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  204 

The  storm,  which  had  wreaked  its  fury,  was  dissipated 
as  suddenly  as  it  arose.  I  determined  to  walk  abroad,  and 
see  if  I  could  calm  the  violence  of  my  feelings  ia  the  still 
moonlight.  I  passed  through  the  parlour.  There  the  re 
past  was  spread,  and  the  chairs  were  standing  round  the 
hospitable  board,  for  those  who  could  never  fill  them  again. 
I  strayed  down  to  the  margin  of  the  lake.  The  faithful 
Rover  was  still  swimming  about,  and  whining  piteously 
over  the  fatal  spot.  Wherever  I  went,  at  every  turn,  some 
thing  arose  to  refresh  the  horror  of  the  scene. 

Mary  recovered  to  linger  a  few  years  a  miserable  ma 
niac  ; — 

"  Though  health  and  bloom  returned,  the  delicate  chain 
Of  thought,  once  tangled,  never  cleared  again." 

She  was  sensible,  however,  a  few  moments  before  she  died 
— thanked  the  kind  domestics,  who  had  never  left  her — • 
and  begged  to  be  buried  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  be 
neath  an  arbour  which  Arthur  had  reared.  Her  injunction 
was  obeyed — and  a  small  tombstone  may  yet  be  found  there 
under  the  long  grass,  bearing  this  simple  inscription— 

"  Poor  Mary  Burton  rests  beneath  this  stone ; 
God  suffereth  not  his  saints  to  live  alone." 


Hypochondriasis  and  its  Remedies.*— RUSH. 

THE  extremes  of  low  and  high  spirits,  which  occur  in 
the  same  person  at  different  times,  are  happily  illustrat 
ed  by  the  following  case  :  A  physician  in  one  of  the  cities 
of  Italy  was  once  consulted  by  a  gentleman,  who  was  much 
distressed  by  a  paroxysm  of  this  intermitting  state  of  hy- 
pochondriasm.  He  advised  him  to  seek  relief  in  convivial 
company,  and  recommended  him  in  particular  to  find  out 
a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Cardini,  who  kept  all  the  ta 
bles  in  the  city,  to  which  he  was  occasionally  invited,  in  a 
roa:  of  laughter.  "  Alas  !  sir,"  said  the  patient,  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  "  I  am  that  Cardini."  Many  such  characters, 
alternately  marked  by  high  and  low  spirits,  are  to  be  found 
in  all  the  c.'Ues  in  the  world. 
IS 


206  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

But  there  are  sometimes  flashes  of  apparent  cheerfulness, 
and  even  of  mirth,  in  the  intervals  of  this  disease,  which 
are  accompanied  with  latent  depression  of  mind.  This  ap 
pears  to  have  been  the  case  in  Cowper,  who  knew  all  iti 
symptoms  by  sad  experience.  Hence,  in  one  of  his  let 
ters  to  Mr.  Hayley,  he  says,  "  I  am  cheerful  upon  paper, 
but  the  most  distressed  of  all  creatures."  It  was  probably 
in  one  of  these  opposite  states  of  mind,  that  he  wrote  his 
humorous  ballad  of  John  Gilpin. 

In  proportion  as  the  hypochondriac  disease  advances,  the 
symptoms  of  the  hysteria,  which  are  generally  combined 
with  it  in  its  first  stage,  disappear,  and  all  the  systems  in 
which  the  disease  is  seated  acquire  an  uniformly  torpid  or 
irritable  state.  The  remissions  and  intermissions  which 
have  been  described  cease,  and  even  the  transient  blaze 
of  cheerfulness,  which  now  and  then  escapes  from  a  heart 
smothered  with  anguish,  is  seen  no  more.  The  distress 
now  becomes  constant.  "  Clouds  return  after  every  rain." 
Not  a  ray  of  comfort  glimmers  upon  the  soul  in  any  of  the 
prospects  or  retrospects  of  life.  "  All  is  now  darkness 
without  and  within."  These  poignant  words  were  once 
uttered  by  a  patient  of  mine  with  peculiar  emphasis,  while 
labouring  under  this  stage  of  the  disease.  Neither  nature 
nor  art  now  possess  a  single  beauty,  nor  music  or  poetry 
a  single  charm.  The  two  latter  often  give  pain,  and  some 
times  offence.  In  vain  do  love  and  friendship,  and  domes 
tic  affection,  offer  sympathy  or  relief  to  the  mind  in  this 
awful  situation.  Even  the  consolations  of  religion  are  re 
jected,  or  heard  with  silence  and  indifference.  Night  no 
longer  affords  a  respite  from  misery.  It  is  passed  in  dis 
tracting  wakefulness,  or  in  dreams  more  terrible  than  wak 
ing  thoughts ;  nor  does  the  light  of  the  sun  chase  away  a 
single  distressing  idea  "  I  rise  in  the  morning,"  says  Cow 
per,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hayley,  "  like  an  infernal  frog  out  of 
Acheron,  covered  with  the  ooze  and  mud  of  melancholy." 
No  change  of  place  is  wished  for,  that  promises  any  allevi 
ation  of  suffering.  "  Could  I  be  translated  to  paradise," 
says  the  same  elegant  historian  of  his  own  sorrows,  in  a 
letter  to  Lady  Hesketh,  "  unless  I  could  leave  my  body  be* 
hind  me.  my  melancholy  would  cleave  to  me  there." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   PROSE.  207 

Can  any  thing  be  anticipated  more  dreadful  than  univer 
sal  madness  ?  and  yet  I  once  attended  a  lady  in  this  city, 
whose  sufferings  from  low  spirits  were  of  such  a  nature, 
that  she  ardently  wished  she  might  lose  her  reason,  in  order 
thereby  to  be  relieved  from  the  horror  of  her  thoughts. 
This  state  of  mind  was  not  new  in  this  disease  Sr«*iisi»eara 
has  described  it  in  the  following  lines,  in  his  inimitable  his 
tory  of  all  the  forms  of  derangement,  in  the  tragedy  of 
King  Lear.  They  are  as  truly  philosophical  as  they  are 
poetical. 

"  Better  I  were  distract ; 


So  should  my  thoughts  be  sever'd  from  my  griefs, 
And  woes,  by  wrong  imaginations,  lose 
The  knowledge  of  themselves  " 

A  pleasant  season,  a  fine  day,  and  even  the  morning  sun, 
often  suspend  the  disease.  Cowper  bears  witness  to  the 
truth  of  this  remark,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Hayley. 
"  I  rise,"  says  he,  "  cheerless  and  distressed,  and  brighten 
as  the  sun  goes  on." 

Dr.  Burton,  in  his  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  delivers  the 
following  direction  for  its  cure  :  "  Be  not  idle  ;  be  not  sol 
itary."  Dr.  Johnson  has  improved  this  advice  by  the  fol 
lowing  commentary  upon  it :  "  When  you  are  idle  be  not 
solitary  ;  and  when  you  are  solitary  be  not  idle."  The 
illiK-strious  Spinola,  upon  hearing  of  the  death  of  a  friend, 
inquired  of  what  disease  he  died.  "  Of  having  nothing  to 
do,"  said  the  person  who  mentioned  it.  "  Enough,"  said 
Spinola,  "  to  kill  a  general."  Not  only  the  want  of  em 
ployment,  but  the  want  of  care,  often  increases  as  well  as 
brings  on  this  disease. 

Concerts,  evening  parties,  and  the  society  of  the  ladies,  to 
gentlemen  affected  with  this  disease,  have  been  useful.  Of 
the  efficacy  of  the  last,  Mr.  Green  has  happily  said, 

"  With  speech  so  sweet,  so  sweet  a  mien, 
They  excommunicate  the  spleen." 

Those  amusements  should  be  preferre1,  which,  while 
they  interest  the  mind,  afford  exercise  to  the  body. 
The  chase,  shooting,  playing  at  quoits,  art  all  useful  for 
this  purpose.  The  words  of  the  poet,  Mr.  Green,  upon 


208  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

this  subject,  deserve  to  be  committed  to  memory  by  a. 
physicians : 

"  To  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias,  spleen, 
Some  recommend  the  bowling-green  ; 
Some,  hilly  walks  ;  all,  exercise  ; 
Fling  but  a  stone — the  giant  dies." 

Chess,  checkers,  cards,  and  even  push-pin,  should  be  pre 
ferred  to  idleness,  when  the  weather  forbids  exercise  in 
the  open  air.  The  theatre  has  often  been  resorted  to,  to 
remove  fits  of  low  spirits  ;  and  it  is  a  singular  fact,  that  a 
tragedy  oftener  dissipates  them  than  a  comedy.  The  rem 
edy,  though  distressing  to  persons  with  healthy  minds,  is 
like  the  temperature  of  cold  water  to  persons  benumbed 
with  frost ;  it  is  exactly  proportioned  to  the  excitability  of 
heir  minds,  and  it  not  only  abstracts  their  attention  from 
themselves,  but  even  revives  their  spirits.  Mirth,  or  even 
cheerfulness,  when  employed  as  remedies  in  low  spirits, 
are  like  hot  water  to  a  frozen  limb.  They  are  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  excitability  of  the  mind,  and,  instead  of  ele 
vating,  never  fail  to  increase  its  depression,  or  to  irritate  it. 
Cowper  could  not  bear  to  hear  his  humorous  story  of  John 
Gilpin  read  to  him  in  his  paroxysms  of  this  disease.  It  was 
to  his  heavy  heart  what  Solomon  happily  compares  to  the 
conflict  produced  by  pouring  vinegar  upon  nitre,  or,  in  other 
words,  upon  an  alkaline  salt. 

Certain  objects  distinguished  for  their  beauty  or  grandeur 
often  afford  relief  in  this  disease.  Cowper  experienced  a 
transient  elevation  of  spirits  from  contemplating  the  ocean 
from  the  house  of  his  friend  Mr.  Hayley  ;  and  the  unfor 
tunate  Mrs.  Robinson  soothed  the  gloom  of  her  mind,  by 
viewing  the  dashing  of  the  waves  of  the  same  sublime  ob 
ject,  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  at  Brighton.  Certain  ani 
mals  suspend  the  anguish  of  mind  of  this  disease,  by  their 
innocence,  ingenuity  or  sports.  Cowper  sometimes  found 
relief  in  playing  with  three  tame  hares,  and  in  observing 
a  number  of  leeches  to  rise  and  fall  in  a  glass  with  the 
changes  of  the  T  reather.  The  poet  says, — 

"  La  ^h  and  be  well.     Monkeys  have  been 
Extreme  good  doctors  for  the  spleen 
And  kitten — if  the  humour  hit — 
Has  harlequin'd  away  the  fit  " 


F 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  209 

The  famous  Luther  was  cheered  under  his  fits  of  low 
spirits,  by  listening  to  the  prattle,  and  observing  the  sports 
and  innocent  countenances,  of  "young  children.  The  tone 
of  their  voices  is  probably  a  source  of  a  part  of  the  relief 
derived  from  their  company.  Cowper  was  always  exhila 
rated  by  conversing  with  Mr.  Hayley's  son,  only  because 
he  was  pleased  with  the  soft  and  musical  tones  of  his  voice. 

Music  has  often  afforded  great  relief  in  this  disease. 
Luther,  who  was  sorely  afflicted  with  it,  has  left  the  fol 
lowing  testimony  in  favour  of  the  art :  "  Next  to  Theolo 
gy,  I  give  the  highest  place  to  music,  for  thereby  all  anger 
is  forgotten  ;  the  devil,  also  melancholy,  and  many  tribula 
tions  and  evil  thoughts  are  driven  away."  For  the  same 
reason  that  tragedies  afford  more  relief  than  comedies, 
plaintive  tunes  are  more  useful  than  such  as  are  of  a 
sprightly  nature.  I  attended  a  citizen  of  Philadelphia  oc 
casionally  in  paroxysms  of  this  disease,  who  informed  me 
that  he  was  cured  of  one  of  them,  by  hearing  the  Old 
Hundred  psalm  tune  sung  in  a  country  church.  His  dis 
order,  he  said,  instantly  'eft  him  in  a  flood  of  tears. 
Dr.  Cardan  always  felt  a  suspension  of  the  anguish  of  his 
mind  from  the  same  cause  ;  and  Cowper  tells  his  friend,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  that  he  was  "  relieved  as  soon  as  hia 
troubles  gushed  from  his  eyes." 


Climate  and  Scenery  of  New  England. — TUDOR. 

THE  position  of  our  continent,  and  the  course  of  the 
winds,  will  always  give  us  an  unequal  climate,  and  one 
abounding  in  contrasts.  In  the  latitude  of  508,  on  the  north 
west  coast  of  America,  the  weather  is  milder  even  than  in 
the  same  parallel  in  Europe ; — the  wind,  three  quarters  of 
the  year,  comes  off  the  Pacific:  in  the  same  latitude  on 
the  eastern  side,  the  country  is  hardly  worth  inhabiting, 
nnder  the  dreary  length  of  cold,  produced  by  the  succes 
sion  of  winds  across  a  frozen  continent.  The  wind  and  the 
fun,  too,  often  carry  on  the  contest  here,  which  they  exert 
ed  on  the  poor  traveller  in  the  fable  ;  and  we  are  in  doubt 
to  which  we  shall  yield.  The  changes  that  cultivation  and 
18* 


210  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK.  OF  PROSE. 

planetary  influence,  if  there  be  such  a  thing,  can  create 
are  very  gradual.  It  seems  to  be  a  general  opinion,  thai 
the  cold  is  more  broken  now.  The  totals  of  heat  and  cold 
may  be  nearly  the  same  as- they  were  fifty  years  ago.  The 
winters  particularly  have  commenced  later.  The  autumn 
is  warmer  and  the  spring  colder.  We  are  still  subject  to 
the  same  caprices  ;  a  flight  of  snow  in  May,  a  frost  in 
June,  and  sometimes  in  every  month  in  the  year ;  and 
yEolus  indulges  his  servants  in  stranger  freaks  and  extrav 
agances  here  than  elsewhere  ;  yet  the  severe  cold  seldom 
sets  in  before  January ;  the  snow  is  less  and  later,  and,  on 
the  sea  coast,  does  not,  on  an  average,  afford  more  than  a 
month's  sleighing. 

These  contrasts  in  our  climate  occasion  some  very  pic 
turesque  effects, — some  that  would  be  considered  phenom 
ena  by  persons  unaccustomed  to  them.  It  blends  together 
the  circumstances  of  very  distant  regions  in  Europe.  Thus, 
when  the  earth  lies  buried  in  a  deep  covering  of  snow,  in 
Europe,  the  clime  is  so  far  to  the  north,  that  the  sun  rises 
but  little  above  the  -horizon,  and  his  daily  visit  is  a  very 
short  one  ; — his  feeble  r  lys  hardly  illumine  a  chilly  sky, 
that  harmonizes  with  the  dreary  waste  it  covers  :  but  here, 
the  same  surface  reflec  js  a  dazzling  brilliancy  from  rays 
that  strike  at  the  same  angle,  at  which  they  do  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's.  The  plains  of  Siberia  and  the  Campagna 
di  Roma  are  here  combined  ; — we  have  the  snow  of  the 
one  and  the  sun  of  the  other  at  the  same  period.  While 
his  rays  in  the  month  of  March  are  expanding  the  flowers 
and  blossoms  at  Albano  and  Tivoli,  they  are  here  falling  on 
a  wide,  uninterrupted  covering  of  snow, — producing  a 
dazzling  brilliancy  that  is  almost  insupportable.  A  moon 
light  at  this  season  is  equally  remarkable,  and  its  effects 
can  be  more  easily  endured.  Our  moon  is  nearly  the  same 
with  that  moon  of  Naples,  which  Carracioli  told  the  king 
of  England  was  "  superior  to  his  majesty's  sun."  When 
this  surface  of  spotless  snow  is  shone  upon  by  this  moon  at 
its  full,  and  reflects  back  its  beams,  the  light  indeed  is  not 
that  of  day,  but  it  takes  away  all  appearance  of  night ; — the 
witch  and  the  spectre  would  shrink  from  its  exposure  : 

"  It  is  not  night ; — 'tis  but  the  daylight  sick  ; 
It  looks  a  little  paler  "  » 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  211 

On  the  sea  coast,  the  winters  are  milder,  but  the  obnox 
ious  east  winds  are  more  severely  felt  in  the  spring,  than 
thev  are  in  the  interior.  The  whole  coast  of  Massachu 
setts  Bay  is  remarkably  exposed  to  their  influence.  Some 
compensation,  however,  is  derived  for  their  harshness  and 
virulence  in  the  spring,  by  their  refreshing  and  salutary 
breezes  in  the  summer,  when  they  frequently  allay  the 
sultry  heat,  and  prevent  it  from  becoming  oppressive.  Al 
though  a  district  favourably  situated  will  enjoy  an  average 
of  climate  two  or  three  degrees  better  than  those  in  its 
neighbourhood,  yet,  generally,  the  progress  of  the  climate  is 
pretty  regular  as  you  follow  the  coast  of  the  United  States 
from  north-east  to  south-west.  I  am  induced  to  think,  that 
our  great  rivers  have  some  connexion  with  the  gradations 
of  climate  ;  that  every  large  river  you  pass  makes  a  dif 
ference  of  two  or  three  degrees  in  the  averages  of  the 
thermometer.  The  position  of  mountains  will  affect  the 
climate  essentially  ;  but  these  rivers,  whose  course  up 
wards  is  northerly,  will  still,  in  general,  be  lines  of  de 
marcation. 

One  of  the  most  agreeable  peculiarities  in  our  climate, 
is  a  period  in  the  autumn  called  the  Indian  Summer.  It 
happens  in  October,  commencing  a  few  days  earlier  or  later, 
as' the  season  may  be.  The  temperature  is  delightful,  and 
the  weather  differing  in  its  character  from  that  of  any  other 
season.  The  air  is  filled  with  a  slight  haze,  like  smoke,  which 
some  suppose  it  to  be  ;  the  wind  is  south-west,  and  there 
is  a  vernal  softness  in  the  atmosphere  ;  yet  the  different  alti 
tude  of  the  sun  from  what  it  has  in  the  summer,  makes  it,  in 
other  respects,  very  unlike  that  season.  This  singular  oc 
currence  in  our  climate  seems  to  be  to  summer,  what  a 
vivid  recollection  of  past  joys  is  to  the  reality.  The  In 
dians  have  some  pleasing  superstitions  respecting  it.  "  They 
believe  it  is  caused  by  a  wind,  which  comes  immediately 
from  the  court  of  their  great  and  benevolent  god  Cautan- 
towwit,  or  the  south-western  god,  the  god  that  is  superior 
to  all  other  beings,  who  sends  them  every  blessing  which 
they  enjoy,  and  to  whom  the  souls  of  their  fathers  go  after 
their  decease.'* 

In  connexion  with  our  climate,  the  appearance  of  our 
atmosphere  may  be  considered.  The  lover  of  picturesqua 


212  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

beauty  will  find  this  a  fruitful  source  of  it.  The  same  in 
equalities  will  be  found  here,  that  take  place  in  the  meas  • 
ure  of  heat  and  cold,  and  an  equal  number  of  contrasts  and 
varieties.  We  have  many  of  those  days,  when  a  murky 
vapourishness  is  diffused  through  the  air,  dimming  the  lus 
tre  of  the  sun,  and  producing  just  such  tones  of  light  and 
colour  as  would  be  marked,  in  the  calendar  of  Newfound 
land  or  the  Hebrides,  for  a  bright,  fair  day.  We  have 
again  others,  in  which  even  the  transparency  and  purity 
of  the  tropics,  and  all  the  glowing  mellow  hues  of  Greece 
and  Naples  are  blended  together,  to  shed  a  hue  of  para 
dise  on  every  object.  I  have  already  spoken  of  the  intense 
brilliancy  of  a  winter  moonlight,  when  the  air  has  a  polar 
temperature ;  the  same  brilliancy  and  a  greater  clearness  are 
often  found  in  the  month  of  June,  and  sometimes  in  July, 
with  the  warmth  of  the  equator.  There  are,  occasionally,  in 
the  summer  and  autumn,  such  magical  effects  of  light,  such 
a  universal  tone  of  colouring,  that  the  very  air  seems  tinged  ; 
and  an  aspect  of  such  harmonious  splendour  is  thrown  over 
every  object,  that  the  attention  of  the  most  indifferent  is 
awakened,  and  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  enjoy 
the  most  lively  delight.  These  are  the  kinds  of  tints,  which 
even  the  matchless  pencil  of  Claude  vainly  endeavoured 
to  imitate.  They  occur  a  few  times  every  year,  a  little 
before  sunset,  under  a  particular  state  of  "the  air  and  posi 
tion  of  the  clouds.  These  beautiful  appearances  are  not 
so  frequent,  indeed,  here,  as  they  are  at  Naples ;  all  those 
warm  and  delicate  colours,  which  we  see  in  Neapolitan 
pictures,  occur  there  more  often  ;  but  I  have  frequently 
seen  the  hills  on  the  south  of  Boston  exhibiting,  towards 
sunset,  the  same  exquisite  hues,  which  Vesuvius  more  fre 
quently  presents,  and  which  the  Neapolitans,  in  their  paint 
ings  of  it,  always  adopt.  The  vivid  beauty,  which  I  now 
speak  of,  is  rare  and  transient ;  but  we  often  enjoy  the 
charms  of  a  transparent  atmosphere,  where  objects  stand 
in  bold  relief,  and  even  distant  ones  will  present  all  their 
hues  and  angles,  clear  and  sharp,  from  the  deep  distant  sky, 
as  on  the  shores  of  Greece  ;  and  we  gaze  at  sunset  on  gor 
geous  skies,  where  all  the  magnificence,  that  form  and  coi- 
our  can  combine,  is  accumulated  to  enrapture  the  eye,  and 
render  description  hopeless. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  213 

The  scenery  of  this  country  will  have  struck  you  at 
once,  as  very  different  from  that  of  Europe.  This  differ 
ence  is  partly  intrinsic,  and  partly  accidental, — arising  out 
of  the  kinds  and  degrees  of  cultivation.  The  most  obvious 
and  extensive  view,  in  which  it  differs,  is  the  redundancy 
of  forest.  A  vast  forest,  to  a  person  who  had  never  seen 
OLC,  would  excite  almost  as  strong  sensations,  as  the  sight 
of  the  ocean  to  him  who  beheld  it  for  the  first  time  ; 
and  in  both  cases  a  long  continuance  of  the  prospect  be 
comes  tiresome.  From  some  of  our  hills,  the  spectator 
looks  over  an  expanse  of  woods  bounded  by  the  horizon, 
and  slightly  chequered  by  cultivation.  The  view  is  grand 
and  imposing  at  first,  but  will  be  more  agreeable,  and  afford 
more  lasting  pleasure,  when  the  relative  proportions  of  wood 
and  open  ground  are  reversed.  The  most  cultivated  parts 
of  these  States  approach  nearest  to  some  of  the  most  cov 
ered  in  England,  that  are  not  an  actual  forest.  We  have 
nothing  like  the  Downs  on  your  southern  coast, — and  fa 
tiguing  as  an  eternal  forest  may  be,  it  is  less  so  than  those 
dreary  wastes,  as  destitute  of  objects  as  the  mountain 
swell  of  the  ocean.  We  have  still  so  much  wood,  that,  even 
in  the  oldest  cultivated  parts  of  the  country,  it  is  difficult 
to  find  a  panoramic  view  of  any  extent,  where  some  patches 
of  the  native  forest  are  not  to  be  found.  I  know  of  but 
one  exception,  which  is  from  the  steeple  of  the  church  in 
Ipswich,  in  Essex,  Massachusetts.  This  is  one  of  the  oldest 
towns  ;  the  prospect  will  put  you  in  mind  of  the  scenery 
of  your  own  country  ; — I  need  not  add,  that  it  is  a  very 
pleasing  one,  and  will  repay  you  for  the  slight  trouble  of 
ascending  the  steeple. 

The  trees,  though  there  are  too  many  of  them,  at  least 
in  masses,  must  please  the  eye  of  an  European,  from  their 
variety  and  beauty,  as  well  as  novelty.  The  richness  of 
our  trees  and  shrubs  has  always  excited  the  admiration  ol 
botanists  and  the  lovers  of  landscape  gardening.  There 
can  be  nothing  nobler  than  the  appearance  of  some  of  the 
oaks  and  beeches  in  England,  and  the  walnuts  and  chest 
nuts  in  France  and  Italy.  The  vast  size  of  these  spreading 
trees  is  only  surpassed  by  some  of  our  sycamores  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio.  Our  oaks  may  sometimes  be  seen  of 
the  same  size, — and  the  towering  white  pine  and  hemlock 


214  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

reach  a  height,  that  I  had  never  seen  attained  hy  trees  in 
Europe  ; — but,  for  grandeur  of  appearance,  we  must  rely, 
in  the  first  instance,  on  the  American  elm,  that  has  been 
planted  for  ornament.  Its  colour,  its  form,  and  its  size, 
place  it  much  before  the  European  elm ;  it  is  one  of  our 
most  majestic  trees.  There  are  many  varieties  of  it  very 
distinct, — yet  not  so  numerous  as  of  the  oaks,  walnuts  and 
some  others.  Of  the  former,  you  know,  we  have  between 
thirty  and  forty  different  species,  and  a  great  number  of 
species  exist  of  all  our  principal  trees.  This  variety,  in  the 
hands  of  taste,  would  be  made  productive  of  the  highest 
effects  in  ornamental  planting,  of  which  you  may  find  more 
specimens  in  your  own  country  than  in  this,  though  orilj 
a  part  of  our  riches  in  this  way  have  been  transplanted  by 
your  gardeners.  You  will  remark  the  fresh  and  healthy 
look  of  our  forest,  as  well  as  fruit  trees,  compared  with 
those  of  all  the  northern  parts  of  Europe.  The  humidity 
of  that  atmosphere  nourishes  the  mosses,  and  a  green  coat 
ing  over  the  trunks  and  branches,  that  give  the  aspect  of 
disease  and  decay.  You  will  often  observe  the  clean  and 
smooth  bark  of  our  trees  of  all  kinds  :  among  the  forest 
trees,  particularly  the  walnut,  rnaple,  beech,  birch,  &c.  will 
be  entirely  free  from  moss  or  rust  of  any  kind, — and  theii 
trunks  form  fine  contrasts  with  the  leaves.  You  will  have 
too  much  of  forest  in  this  country  to  go  in  pursuit  of  one 
but,  should  you  happen  to  visit  Nashawn,  one  of  the  Eliz 
abeth  Islands,  you  will  see  the  most  beautiful  insulated  for 
est  in  the  United  States,  with  less  of  that  ragged,  lank  look, 
which  our  native  forests  commonly  present,  from  the  trees 
struggling  with  each  other  for  the  light,  and  running  up  to 
great  height,  with  few  or  no  branches  ;  but  this  one  exhibits 
the  tufted,  rounded  masses,  which  are  found  in  the  groves 
of  your  parks. 

I  will  mention  a  peculiarity,  which  you  will  witness  in 
autumn,  that  will  affect  a  lover  of  landscape  scenery,  like 
yourself,  on  seeing  it  the  first  time,  with  surprise  as  well 
as  delight.  The  rich  and  mellow  tints  of  the  forest,  at  that 
season  of  the  year,  have  often  furnished  subjects  for  the 
poet  and  the  painter  in  Europe;  but  it  will  hardly  prepare 
you  for  the  sights  our  woods  exhibit.  I  have  never  seen 
»  representation  of  them  attempted  in  painting;  it  Tvould 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  215 

probably  be  grotesque.  Besides  all  the  shades  of  brown 
and  green,  which  you  have  in  European  trees,  there  are 
the  most  brilliant  and  glaring  colours, — bright  yellow,  and 
scarlet  for  instance, — not  merely  on  single  leaves,  but  in 
masses  of  whole  trees,  with  all  their  foliage  thus  tinged. 
I  do  not  know  that  it  has  ever  been  accounted  for ;  it  may 
perhaps  be  owing  to  the  frosts  coming  earlier  here  than  in 
Europe,  and  falling  on  the  leaves  while  the  sap  is  yet  copi 
ous,  before  they  have  begun  to  dry  up  and  fall  off.  How 
ever  this  may  be,  the  colouring  is  wonderful ;  the  walnut 
is  turned  to  the  brightest  yellow,  the  maple  to  scarlet,  &c. 
Our  trees  put  on  this  harlequin  dress  about  the  first  of 
October.  I  leave  to  your  imagination,  which  can  never 
reach  the  reality,  to  fancy  the  appearance  of  such  scenes 
as  you  may  behold  at  this  season.  A  cloudless  sky,  and 
transparent  atmosphere,  a  clear  blue  lake,  with  meadows 
of  light,  delicate  green,  backed  by  hills  and  dales  of  those 
party-coloured,  gorgeous  forests,  are  often  combined,  to  form 
the  most  enchanting  views. 


First  and  Second   Death. — GREENWOOD. 

THE  first  death  is  the  death  of  the  body  ;  the  quenching 
of  that  undiscovered  spark,  which  warms  and  animates  the 
human  frame ;  the  return  of  our  dust  to  the  earth  as  it 
was ;  the  event  which  happeneth  unto  all  men ;  "  the 
sentence  of  the  Lord  over  all  flesh."  We  cannot  prevent 
it.  Like  birth,  it  is  inevitable.  Helplessly,  and  without 
our  own  will,  we  open  our  eyes  at  first  to  the  light  of  day  ; 
and  tbo.n,  by  an  equal  necessity,  we  lie  down  to  sleep, 
some  at  this  hour,  some  at  the  next,  on  the  lap  of  our 
mother.  This  death  is  an  ordinance  of  God.  It  was 
intended  for  our  benefit;  and  can  do  us  no  essential  harm. 
It  disturbs  not  the  welfare  of  the  soul ;  it  touches  not  the 
life  of  the  spirit. 

The  second  deatfi  is  more  awful  and  momentous.  It  is 
the  death  of  that  which  the  first  death  left  alive.  It  is  the 
death  of  reputation,  the  death  of  love,  the  death  of  happi 
ness,  the  exile  of  the  soul  It  has  no  connexion  with  the 


216  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

first  death,  for  its  causes  are  all  engendered  in  the  h"e  of 
the  body.  Unlike  the  first,  it  is  a  death  which  all  men  do 
not  die.  Unlike  the  first,  it  is  a  death  from  which  there  is 
a  way  of  escape.  And  yet  there  are*  more  who  are  terri 
fied  with  the  first  death,  unimportant  as  it  is,  than  there 
are  who  fear  the  second,  though  it  includes  every  wo.  Andi 
almost  all  men  attempt  to  fly  from  the  first,  though  they 
know  it  to  be  impossible  ;  while  few  take  pains  to  avoid 
the  last,  though  it  is  within  their  ability  to  do  so. 

The  first  death,  then,  is  invested  with  complete  power 
over  all  men.  It  withers  human  strength,  it  respects  not 
human  authority.  Hank  is  not  exempt  from  it,  art  cannot 
elude,  riches  cannot  bribe,  eloquence  cannot  soften,  nor 
can  even  virtue  overcome  it.  But  with  that  second  and 
far  more  dreadful  death,  it  is  not  so.  There  are  those  over 
whom  it  hath  no  power.  Any  one  may  join  their  number. 
There  is  no  mystery,  no  hardship,  in  the  terms  of  the 
blessed  exemption.  All  may  read,  all  may  comply  with 
them.  They  arise  from  the  nature  of  the  second  death. 
For  as  nothing  bui  vice  and  disobedience  towards  God  can 
affect  the  life  of  the  spirit,  and  invest  the  second  death 
with  its  power,  so  it  is  righteousness  only,  and  the  healthful 
fruits  of  religion,  which  can  defy  and  render  it  powerless. 
"  In  "the  way  of  righteousness  there  is  life,  and  in  the 
pathway  thereof  there  is  no  death."  So  little  is  the  first 
death  considered,  and  so  little  account  of  it  is  made,  in 
many  parts  of  Scripture,  that  we  are  told,  in  some  of  its 
sublimest  strains,  that  the  believer  in  Jesus,  the  true 
Christian,  "  shall  never  die."  Goodness  carries  with  it 
the  eternal  principles  of  life,  deeply  engrafted  into  its  con 
stitution  ;  so  that  it  cannot  lose  it,  nor  part  with  it.  It  is 
the  good,  the  benevolent,  the  pious,  and  the  pure,  to  whom 
life  is  promised  ;  and  on  such  "  the  second  death  has  no 
power." 

In  the  sight  of  men  they  die  ;  and  so  far  there  is  indeed 
but  one  event  to  the  righteous  and  the  wicked.  But  this 
is  only  the  first,  the  corporeal  death  ^  and  in  all  essential 
respects  tbey  live. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  217 


Posthumous  Influence  of  the  Wise  and  Good. — NORTON. 

THE  relations  between  man  and  man  cease  not  with  life 
The  dead  leave  behind  them  their  memory,  their  exam- 
pie,  and  the  effects  of  their  actions.  Their  influence  stil 
abides  with  us.  Their  names  and  characters  dwell  in  out 
thoughts  and  hearts.  We  live  and  commune  with  them  in 
their  writings.  We  enjoy  the  benefit  of  their  labours. 
Our  institutions  have  been  founded  by  them.  We  are  sur 
rounded  by  the  works  of  the  dead.  Our  knowledge  and 
our  arts  are  the  fruit  of  their  toil.  Our  minds  have  been 
formed  by  their  instructions.  We  are  most  intimately  con 
nected  with  them  by  a  thousand  dependencies.  Those 
\vho;n  we  have  loved  in  life  are  still  objects  of  our  deepest 
and  holiest  affections.  Their  power  over  us  remains 
They  are  with  us  in  our  solitary  walks  ;  and  their  voices 
speak  to  our  hearts  in  the  silence  of  midnight.  Their 
image  is  impressed  upon  our  dearest  recollections,  and  our 
most  sacred  hopes.  They  form  an  essential  part  of  our 
treasure  laid  up  in  heaven.  For,  above  all,  we  are  sepa 
rated  from  them  but  for  a  little  time.  We  are  soon  to  be 
united  with  them.  If  we  follow  in  the  path  of  those  we 
have  loved,  we  too  shall  soon  join  the  innumerable  company 
of  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect.  Our  affections 
and  our  hopes  are  not  buried  in  the  dust,  to  which  we  com 
mit  the  poor  remains  of  mortality.  The  blessed  retain 
their  remembrance  and  their  love  for  us  in  heaven  ;  and 
we  will  cherish  our  remembrance  and  our  love  for  them 
while  on  earth. 

Creatures  of  imitation  and  sympathy  as  we  are,  we  look 
around  us  for  r  pport  and  countenance  even  in  our  virtues. 
We  recur  for  them,  most  securely,  to  the  examples  of  the 
dead.  There  is  a  degree  of  insecurity  and  uncertainty 
about  living  worth.  The  stamp  has  not  yet  been  put  upon 
it,  which  precludes  all  change,  and  seals  it  up  as  a  just 
object  of  admiration  for  future  times.  There  is  no  service 
which  a  man  of  commanding  intellect  can  render  his  fel- 
.ow  creatures  better  than  that  of  leaving  behind  him  an 
unspotted  example.  If  he  do  not  confer  upon  them  this 
benefit ;  if  he  leave  a  character  dark  with  vices  in  the 
19 


218  C"  N-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

sight  of  God,  but  dazzling  with  shining  qualities  in  ti,s 
view  of  men ;  it  may  be  that  all  his  other  services  had 
better  have  been  forborne,  and  he  had  passed  inactive  aud 
unnoticed  through  life.  It  is  a  dictate  of  wisdom,  there 
fore,  as  well  as  feeling,  when  a  man,  eminent  for  his  vir 
tues  and  talents,  has  been  taken  away,  to  collect  the  riches 
of  his  goodness,  and  add  them  '.o  the  treasury  of  human 
improvement.  The  true  Christian  liveth  not  for  himself, 
and  dieth  not  for  himself;  and  it  is  thus,  in  one  respect,, 
that  he  dieth  not  for  himself. 


Difficulties  encountered  by   the  Federal  Convention. 
MADISON. 

AMONG  the  difficulties  encountered  by  the  convention, 
a  very  important  one  must  have  lain,  in  combining  the 
requisite  stability  and  energy  in  government,  wUh  the 
inviolable  attention  due  to  liberty,  and  to  the  republican 
form.  Without  substantially  accomplishing  this  part  of 
their  undertaking,  they  would  have  very  imperfectly  ful 
filled  the  object  of  their  appointment,  or  the  expectation 
of  the  public  ;  yet,  that  it  could  not  easily  be  accomplished, 
will  be  denied  by  no  oi.e,  who  is  unwilling  to  betray  his 
ignorance  on  the  subject.  Energy  in  government  is 
essential  to  that  security  against  external  and  internal 
danger,  and  to  that  prompt  and  salutary  execution  of  the 
laws,  which  enter  into  the  very  definition  of  good  govern 
ment.  Stability  in  government  is  essential  to  national 
character,  and  to  the  advantages  annexed  to  it,  as  well  as 
to  that  repose  and  confidence  in  the  minds  of  the  people, 
which  are  among  the  chief  blessings  of  civil  society.  An 
irregular  and  mutable  legislation  is  not  more  an  evil  in 
itself,  than  it  is  odious  to  the  people ;  and  it  may  be  pro 
nounced  with  assurance,  that  the  people  in  this  country, 
enlightened  as  they  are  with  regard  to  the  nature,  aw' 
interested,  as  the  great  body  of  them  are,  in  the  effects 
of  good  government,  will  never  be  satisfied  till  somo 
remedy  be  applied  to  the  vicissitudes  and  uncertainties, 
which  characterize  the  state  administrations.  On  compar* 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  219 

Ing,  however,  these  valuable  ingredients  with  the  vital 
principles  of  liberty,  we  must  perceive,  at  once,  the  diffi 
culty  of  mingling  them  together  in  their  dilfe  proportions. 
The  genius  of  republican  liberty  seems  to  demand,  on  the 
one  side,  not  only  that  all  power  should  be  derived  frcna 
the  people,  but  that  those  intrusted  with  it  should  be  kept 
in  dependence  on  the  people,  by  a  short  duration  of  their 
appointments ;  and  that,  even  during  this  short  period,  the 
trust  should  be  placed  not  in  a  few,  but  in  a  number  of 
hands.  Stability,  on  the  contrary,  requires  that  the  hands 
in  which  power  is  lodged  should  remain  for  a  length  of 
time  the  same.  A  frequent  change  of  men  will  result 
from  a  frequent  return  of  elections ;  and  a  frequent  change 
of  measures  from  a  frequent  change  of  men  ;  whilst  energy 
in  government  requires  not  only  a  certain  duration  of  pow 
er,  but  the  execution  of  it  by  a  single  person: 

Not  less  arduous  must  have  been  the  task  of  marking  the 
proper  line  of  partition  between  the  authority  of  the  gen 
eral,  and  that  of  the  state  governments.  Every  man  will 
be  sensible  of  this  difficulty,  in  proportion  as  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  contemplate  and  discriminate  objects,  exten 
sive  and  complicated  in  their  nature.  The  faculties  of  the 
mind  itself  have  never  yet  been  distinguished  and  defined, 
with  satisfactory  precision,  by  all  the  efforts  of  the  most 
acute  and  metaphysical  philosophers.  Sense,  perception, 
judgment,  desire,  volition,  memory,  imagination,  are  found 
to  be  separated  by  such  delicate  shades  and  minute  grade- 
tions,  that  their  boundaries  have  eluded  the  most  subtile 
investigations,  and  remain  a  pregnant  source  of  ingenious 
disquisition  and  controversy.  The  boundaries  between  the 
great  kingdoms  of  nature,  and,  still  more,  between  the 
various  provinces  and  lesser  proportions  into  which  they 
are  subdivided,  afford  another  illustration  of  the  same 
important  truth.  The  most  sagacious  and  laborious  natu 
ralists  have  never  yet  succeeded  in  tracing,  with  certainty, 
the  line  which  separates  the  district  of  vegetable  life 
from  the  neighbouring  region  of  unorganized  matter,  or 
which  marks  the  termination  of  the  former,  and  the  com 
mencement  of  the  animal  empire.  A  still  greater  obscu 
rity  lies  in  the  distinctive  characters,  by  which  the  object 


220  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

in  each  of  these  great  departments  of  nature  have  bee* 
arranged  and  assorted. 

When  we  pass  from  the  works  of  nature,  in  which  all 
the  delineations  are  perfectly  accurate,  and  appear  to  be 
otherwise  only  from  the  imperfection  of  the  eye  which 
surveys  them,  to  the  institutions  of  man,  in  which  the  ob 
scurity  arises  as  well  from  the  object  itself,  as  from  the 
organ  by  which  it  is  contemplated,  we  must  perceive  the 
necessity  of  moderating  still  further  our  expectations  and 
hopes  from  the  efforts  of  human  sagacity.  Experience  has 
instructed  us,  that  no  skill  in  the  science  of  government 
has  yet  been  able  to  discriminate ^nd  define,  with  sufficient 
certainty,  its  three  great  provinces,  the  legislative,  the 
executive,  and  the  judiciary ;  or  even  the  privileges  and 
powers  of  the  different  legislative  branches.  Questions 
daily  occur,  in  the  course  of  practice,  which  prove  the 
obscurity  that  reigns  over  these  subjects,  and  which  puzzle 
the  greatest  adepts  in  political  science. 

Besides  the  obscurity  arising  from  the  complexity  of 
objects,  and  the  imperfection  of  the  human  faculties,  the 
medium  through  which  the  conceptions  of  men  are  con 
veyed  to  each  other,  adds  a  fresh  embarrassment.  The 
use  of  words  is  to  express  ideas.  Perspicuity,  therefore, 
requires  not  only  that  the  ideas  should  be  distinctly  formed, 
but  that  they  should  be  expressed  by  words  distinctively 
and  exclusively  appropriated  to  them.  But  no  language  is 
so  copious  as  to  supply  words  and  phrases  for  every  com 
plex  idea,  or  so  correct  as  not  to  include  many  equivocally 
denoting  different  ideas.  Hence  it  must  happen,  that,  how 
ever  accurately  objects  may  be  discriminated  in  themselves, 
and  however  accurately  the  discrimination  may  be  consid 
ered,  the  definition  of  them  may  be  rendered  inaccurate 
by  the  inaccuracy  of  the  terms  in  which  it  is  delivered. 
And  this  unavoidable  inaccuracy  must  be  gres  Jer  or  less, 
according  to  the  complexity  and  novelty  of  the  objects 
denned.  When  the  Almighty  himself  condescends  to 
address  mankind  in  their  own  language,  his  meaning, 
luminous  as  it  must  be,  is  rendered  dim  and  doubtful 
by  the  cloudy  medium  through  which  it  is  communi 
cated. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  221 

i 

Here,  then,  are  three  sources  of  vague  and  incorrect 
definitions ; — indistinctness  of  the  object,  imperfection  of 
the  organ  of  perception,  inadequateness  of  the  vehicle  of 
ideas.  Any  one  of  these  must  produce  a  certain  degree 
of  obscurity.  The  convention,  in  delineating  the  boundaiy 
between  the  federal  and  state  jurisdictions,  must  have 
experienced  the  full  effect  of  them  all. 

Would  it  be  wonderful  if,  under  the  pressuie  of  all 
these  difficulties,  the  convention  should  have  been  forced 
into  some  deviations  from  that  artificial  structure  and  regu- 
Jar  symmetry,  which  an  abstract  view  of  the  subject  might 
lead  an  ingenious  theorist  to  bestow  on  a  constitution  plan 
ned  in  his  closet  or  in  his  imagination  ?  The  real  wonder 
is,  that  so  many  difficulties  should  have  been  surmounted ; 
and  surmounted  with  unanimity  almost  as  unprecedented 
as  it  must  have  been  unexpected.  It  is  impossible  for  any 
man  of  candour  to  reflect  on  this  circumstance  without  par 
taking  of  the  astonishment.  It  is  impossible  for  the  man 
of  pious  reflection  not  to  perceive  in  it  the  finger  of  that 
Almighty  Hand,  which  has  been  so  frequently  and  signally 
extended  to  our  relief  in  the  critical  stages  of  the  revolution. 


Reflections  on  the  Battle  of  Lexington. — EDWARD 
EVERETT. 

IT  was  one  of  those  great  days,  one  of  those  elemental 
occasions  in  the  world's  affairs,  when  the  people  rise  and 
act  for  themselves.  Some  organization  and  preparation  had 
been  made  ;  but,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  with  scarce 
any  effect  on  the  events  of  that  day.  It  may  be  doubted, 
whether  there  was  an  efficient  order  given  the  whole  day 
to  any  body  of  men  as  large  as  a  regiment.  It  was  the 
people,  in  their  first  capacity,  as  citizens  and  as  freemen, 
starting  from  their  beds  at  midnight,  from  their  firesides, 
and  their  fields,  to  take  their  own  cause  into  their  own 
hands.  Such  a  spectacle  is  the  height  of  the  moral  sub 
lime  ;  when  the  want  of  every  thing  is  fully  made  up  by 
the  spirit  of  the  cause  ;  and  the  soul  within  stands  in  place 
of  discipline,  organization,  resources.  In  the  prodigious 
19* 


222  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK.  OF  PROSE. 

efforts  of  a  veteran  army,  beneath  the  dazzling  splendour 
af  their  array,  there  is  something  revolting  to  the  reflecting 
mind.  The  ranks  are  filled  with  the  desperate,  the 
mercenary,  the  depraved  :  an  iron  slavery,  by  the  name 
of  subordination,  merges  the  free  will  of  one  hundred 
thousand  men  in  the  unqualified  despotism  of  one  ;  the 
humanity,  mercy,  and  remorse,  which  scarce  ever  de 
sert  the  individual  bosom,  are  sounds  without  a  meaning 
to  that  fearful,  ravenous,  irrational  monster  of  prey,  a 
mercenary  army.  It  is  hard  to  say  who  are  most  to  be 
commiserated,  the  wretched  people  on  whom  it  is  let  loose, 
or  the  still  more  wretched  people  whose  substance  has 
been  sucked  out,  to  nourish  it  into  strength  and  fury.  But 
in  the  efforts  of  the  people,  of  the  people  struggling  for 
their  rights,  moving  not  in  organized,  disciplined  masses, 
but  in  their  spontaneous  action,  man  for  man,  and  heart  for 
heart, — though  I  like  not  war,  nor  any  of  its  works, — there 
is  something  glorious.  They  can  then  move  forward 
without  orders,  act  together  without  combination,  and  brave 
the  flaming  lines  of  battle,  without  entrenchments  to  cover, 
or  walls  to  shield  them.  No  dissolute  camp  has  worn  off 
from  the  feelings  of  the  youthful  soldier  the  freshness  of 
that  home,  where  his  mother  and  his  sisters  sit  waiting, 
with  tearful  eyes  and  aching  hearts,  to  hear  good  news 
from  the  wars ;  no  long  service  in  the  ranks  of  the  con 
queror  has  turned  the  veteran's  heart  into  marble  ;  their 
valor  springs  not  from  recklessness,  from  habit,  from  indif 
ference  to  the  preservation  of  a  life,  knit  by  no  pledges  to 
the  life  of  others  ;  but  in  the  strength  and  spirit  of  the  cause 
alone  they  act,  they  contend,  they  bleed.  In  this  they  con 
quer.  The  people  always  conquer.  They  always  must  con 
quer.  Armies  may  be  defeated  ;  kings  may  be  overthrown, 
and  new  dynasties  imposed  by  foreign  arms  on  an  ignorant 
and  slavish  race,  that  care  not  in  what  language  the  cove- 
riant  of  their  subjection  runs,  nor  in  whose  name  the  deed 
of  their  barter  and- sale  is  made  out.  But  the  people  never 
invade  ,  -md,  when  they  rise  against  the  invader,  are  never 
subdued.  If  they  are  drivon  from  the  plains,  they  fly  to 
the  mountains.  Steep  rocks  and  everlasting  hills  are  their 
castles  ;  the  tangled,  pathless  thicket  their  palisado ;  an<i 
nature, — fiod, — is  their  Mly.  Now  he  overwhelms  the 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  223 

DOS  i  of  their  enemies  beneath  his  drifting  mountains  of 
san :•. ;  now  he  buries  them  beneath  an  atmosphere  of  falling 
snows  ;  he  lets  loose  his  tempests  on  their  fleets ;  he  puts 
a  folly  into  their  counsels,  a  madness  into  the  hearts  of 
their  leaders  ;  and  he  never  gave,  and  never  will  give,  a  full 
and  final  triumph  over  a  virtuous,  gallant  people,  resolved 
to  be  free. 


Purpose  of  the  Monument  on  Bunker  Hill. — WEBSTER, 

WE  kjjow  that  the  record  of  illustrious  actions  is  most 
safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remembrance  of  mankind. 
We  know,  that  if  we  could  cause  this  structure  to  ascend, 
not  only  till  it  reached  the  skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them, 
its  broad  surfaces  could  still  contain  but  part  of  that,  which, 
in  an  age  of  knowledge,  hath  already  been  spread  over  the 
earth,  and  which  History  charges  herself  with  making 
known  to  all  future  times.  We  know  that  no  inscription, 
on  entablatures  less  broad  than  the  earth  itself,  can  carry 
information  of  the  events  we  commemorate  where  it  has 
not  already  gone ;  and  that  no  structure,  which  shall  not 
outlive  the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge  among  men, 
can  prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  object  is,  by  this  edi 
fice,  to  show  our  deep  sense  of  the  value  and  importance 
of  the  achievements  of  our  ancestors  ;  and,  by  presenting 
this  work  of  gratitude  to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar 
sentiments,  and  to  foster  a  constant  regard  to  the  principles 
of  the  revolution.  Human  beings  are  composed  not  of  rea 
son  only,  but  of  imagination  also,  and  sentiment ;  and  that 
is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied,  which  is  appropriated  to 
the  purpose  of  giving  right  direction  to  sentiments,  and 
opening  proper  springs  of  feeling  in  the  heart. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  is  to  perpetuate 
national  hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a  mere  military  spirit. 
It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler.  We  consecrate  our  work  to 
the  spirit  cf  national  independence,  and  we  wish  that  the 
light  of  pe  ice  may  rest  upon  it  forever.  We  rear  a  memo- 
r.ai  of  our  conviction  of  that  unmeasured  benefit,  which 
has  been  conferred  on  our  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences, 


224  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

which  have  been  produced,  by  the  same  events,  on  th« 
general  interests  of  mankind.  We  come,  as  Americans, 
to  mark  a  spot,  which  must  be  forever  dear  to  us,  and  our 
posterity.  We  wish,  that  whosoever,  in  all  coming  time, 
shall  turn  his  eye  hither,  may  behold  that  the  place  is  not 
undistinguished  where  the  first  great  battle  of  the  revolu 
tion  was  fought.  We  wish,  that  this  structure  may  pro 
claim  the  magnitude  and  importance  of  that  event  to  every 
class  and  every  age.  We  wish,  that  infancy  may  learn  the 
purpose  of  its  erection  from  maternal  lips,  and  that  weary 
and  withered  age  may  behold  it,  and  be  solaced  by  the 
recollections  which  it  suggests.  We  wish,  that  labor  may 
look  up  here,  and 'be  proud,  in  the  midst  of  its  toil.  We 
wish,  that,  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as  they  come 
upon  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  on  us  also, 
desponding  patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hither,  and  be 
assured  that  the  foundations  of  our  national  power  still 
stand  strong.  We  wish, -that  this  column,  rising  towards 
heaven  among  the  pointed  spires  of  so  many  temples  dedi 
cated  to  God,  may  contribute  also  to  produce,  in  all  minds, 
a  pious  feeling  of  dependence  and  gratitude.  We  wish, 
finally,  that  the  last  object  on  the  sight  of  him  who  leaves 
his  native  shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  his  who  revisits 
it,  may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the  liberty 
and  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise,  till  it  meet  the  sun 
in  his  coming  ;  let  the  earliest  light  of  morning  gild  it,  and 
parting  day  linger  and  play  upon  its  summit. 


Albums  and  the  Alps. — BUCKMINSTER. 

Yotr  find,  in  some  of  the  rudest  passes  in  the  Alps, 
homely  inns,  which  public  beneficence  has  erected  for  the 
convenience  of  the  weary  and  benighted  traveller.  In 
most  of  these  inns  albums  are  kept  to  record  the  names 
of  those,  whose  curiosity  has  led  them  into  these  regions  of 
barrenness,  and  the  album  is  not  unfrequently  the  only 
book  in  the  house.  In  the  album  of  the  Grand  Chartreuse, 
Gray,  on  his  way  to  Geneva,  recorded  his  deathless  name, 
and  left  that  exquisite  Latin  ode,  beginning,  "  O !  tu  severi 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  225 

religio  loci ;"  an  ode  which  is  indeed  "  pure  nectar."  It 
is  curious  to  observe  in  these  books  the  differences  of  na 
tional  character.  The  Englishman  usually  writes  his  name 
only,  without  explanation  or  comment.  The  Frenchman 
records  something  of  his  feelings,  destination,  or  business ; 
commonly  adding  a  line  of  poetry,  an  epigram,  or  some 
exclamation  of  pleasure  or  disgust.  The  German  leaves  a 
long  dissertation  upon  the  state  of  the  roads,  the  accc  ni- 
modations,  &c.,  detailing  at  full  length  whence  he  came  and 
whither  he  is  going,  through  long  pages  of  crabbed 
writing. 

In  one  of  the  highest  regions  of  the  Swiss  Alps,  after  a 
day  of  excessive  labour  in  reaching  the  summit  of  our 
journey,  near  those  thrones  erected  ages  ago  for  the  ma 
jesty  of  Nature,  we  stopped,  fatigued  and  dispirited,  on  a 
spot  destined  to  eternal  barrenness,  where  we  found  one  of 
these  rude  but  hospitable  inns  open  to  receive  us.  There 
was  not  another  human  habitation  within  many  miles.  All 
the  soil,  which  we  could  see,  had  been  brought  thither,  and 
placed  carefully  round  the  cottage,  to  nourish  a  few  cabbages 
and  lettuces.  There  were  some  goats,  which  supplied  the 
cottagers  with  milk  ;  a  few  fowls  lived  in  the  house  ;  and 
the  greatest  luxuries  of  the  place  were  new-made  cheeSes, 
and  some  wild  Alpine  mutton,  the  rare  provision  of  the  trav 
eller.  Yet  here  Nature  had  thrown  off  the  veil,  and 
appeared  in  all  her  sublimity.  Summits  of  bare  granite 
rose  all  around  us.  The  snow-clad  tops  of  distant  Alps 
seemed  to  chill  the  moon-beams  that  lighted  on  them; 
and  we  felt  all  the  charms  of  the  picturesque,  mingled 
with  the  awe  inspired  by  unchangeable  grandeur.  We 
seemed  to  have  reached  the  original  elevations  of  the 
globe,  o'ertopping  forever  the  tumults,  the  vices  and  the 
miseries  of  ordinary  existence,  far  out  of  hearing  of  the 
murmurs  of  a  busy  world,  which  discord  ravages,  and 
luxury  corrupts.  We  asked  for  the  album,  and  a  large 
folio  was  brought  to  us,  almost  filled  with  the  scrawls  of 
every  nation  on  earth  that  could  write.  Instantly  our 
fatigue  was  forgotten,  and  the  evening  passed  away  pleas 
antly  in  the  entertainment  which  this  book  afforded  as. 
I  copied  the  following  French  couplet : 


226  COMMON -PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

"  Dans  ces  sauvages  lieux  tout  orgueil  s'humanise  , 
Dieu  s'y  montre  plus  grand  ;  1'homme  s'y  pulverise  ! 
".Signed, 

"  p.  ed.  trSnii." 

I  wish  I  could  preserve  the  elegance,  as  well  as  the  con 
densed  sentiment  of  the  original 

Still  are  these  rugged  realms  ;  e'en  pride  is  hushed  ; 
God  seems  more  grand  ;  man  crumbles  into  dust 


Interview  with  Robert  Southey. — GRISCOM. 

OJT  alighting  at  Keswick,  I  inquired  for  the  house  of 
Robert  Southey  ;  for  it  is  in  this  poetic  region  that  the 
laureate  has  fixed  his  residence ;  remote  from  the  confusion 
and  irritations  of  the  metropolis  ;  but  holding  a  daily  inter 
course,  by  the  rapid  conveyance  of  the  mail,  with  that 
great  fountain  of  intelligence,  and  deriving  all  that  he  may 
wish  from  the  prolific  stores  of  Paternoster-Row.  His 
house  is  situated  on  an  eminence,  with  a  fine  prospect 
before  it ;  a  plain  and  unimposing,  but  comfortable  man 
sion.  I  was  introduced  to  him  in  his  library  up  stairs,  and 
was  met  with  an  ease  and  politeness,  which  distinguished 
at  once  the  man  of  kind  feeling,  of  good  sense,  and  good 
society.  He  has'  still  an  air  of  youthfulness  in  his  counte 
nance,  and  his  manners  are  lively  and  animated. 

There  are  few  men,  I  should  presume,  in  England,  who 
are  spending  their  lives  more  classically,  in  a  more  agreea 
ble  literary  retirement,  than  Robert  Southey.  His  library 
occupies  several  rooms.  The  fertility  of  his  mind,  and  the 
activity  of  his  researches,  appear  to  leave  him  at  no  loss  in 
the  selection  of  a  subject  for  the  employment  of  his  geni 
us  ;  and  the  different  productions  of  his  pen  are  too  well 
known  to  need  any  remarks  from  me  upon  their  various 
merits.  His  early  life  was  spent  in  Bristol.  It  was  in 
that  neighbourhood  that  Coleridge,*  Lovell,  and  himself,  nil 

*  The  youthful  enthusiasm,  which  dictated  this  romantic  idea,  is  very 
beautifully  referred  to  in  an  essay  in  the  first  volume  of  "The  Friend," 
by  Coleridge  ;  whose  prose  writings  should  be  more  extensively  known 
in  this  country  than  they  are. — ED 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  227 

fellow  commoners  at  Oxford,  attached  themselves  to  three 
sisters  of  a  respectable  family,  whom  they  married  ;  and, 
in  the  ardour  of  youthful  anticipation,  and  with  those  high- 
wrought  notions  of  worldly  happiness,  which  always  have 
much  more  of  poetry  than  of  sober  judgment  in  them,  they 
resolved,  with  their  wives,  to  embark  for  the  United  States, 
to  settle  themselves  in  a  retired  spot  on  the  banks  of  the 
Susquehannah,  there  to  plant  an  Arcadia,  and  there  to 
spend  a  life  of  primitive  simplicity  and  Elysian  enjoyment. 
Happily  for  their  comfort,  and  the  credit  of  English  litera 
ture,  the  scheme  was  given  up. 

Southey  is  about  forty-five  years  of  age.  His  person 
is  of  the  middle  size,  and  his  looks  and  manners  are  indic 
ative  of  frankness  and  amiableness  of  character.  In  the 
same  house,  but  in  separate  apartments,  the  two  sisters  of 
his  wife,  the  widow  of  Lovell,  and  the  wife  of  Coleridge, 
the  poet,  also  reside.  The  former  of  these  two,  who  lost 
her  husband  soon  after  her  marriage,  has  employed  herself 
in  instructing  the  daughters  of  her  brother-in-law.  Cole 
ridge  lives,  I  believe,  altogether  in  London;  the  separation 
from  his  wife  arising  more  from  his  eccentricities  and  sin 
gularities  than  from  any  breach  of  family  agreement.  His 
two  sons  remain  with  their  mother,  and  I  have  understood 
that  Southey,  with  a  liberality  that  does  him  the  highest 
honour,  takes  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  their  edu 
cation,  and  the  utmost  harmony  prevails  in  the  family. 

In  rising  to  take  leave,  after  an  hour  of  delightful  con 
versation,  Southey  proposed  to  walk  with  me  on  the  mar 
gin  of  the  lake.  We  had  a  charming  ramble  of  half  a 
mile  along  a  path  which  presented,  at  various  points,  beau 
tiful  views  of  the  Derwent-water.  This  end  of  the  lake 
is  diversified  with  islands,  some  of  which  are  adorned  with 
elegant  mansions.  Boats,  neatly  painted,  and  adapted  tc 
excursions  of  pleasure,  are  kept  by  many  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  Keswick.  The  grounds,  through  which  we 
walked,  belonged  formerly  to  the  Earl  of  Derwent-water; 
but,  becoming  confiscated  to  the  crown,  they  were  appro 
priated  to  the  support  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  to  the  funds 
of  which  they  still  contribute.  We  walked  to  a  point 
which  gave  us  a  view  of  the  southern  termination  of  the 
like,  and  the  entrance  of  Borrowdale.  The  scenery  }• 


228  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

wild  and  beautiful,  reminding  ire  of  Lake  George  in  our 
own  state,  but  more  subdued  and  enriched  by  cultivation 
Skiddaw,  one  of  the  highest  mountains  in  Cumberland, 
rises  a  little  to  the  north  of  Keswick.  Its  summit  IH 
about  three  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  tea, 
equalling,  in  point  of  elevation,  the  highest  peak  of  the 
High-lands,  through  which  the  Hudson  passes,  just  below 
Newburgh.  Southey  informed  me  that  he  had  made  an 
excursion  to  the  top  of  this  mountain  with  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy.  Near  the  summit  the  latter  discovered  a  mineral 
of  rare  occurrence,  (if  I  recollect  rightly,  the  cluastolite,) 
found  only  in  clay-slate,  which  appears  to  be  the  prevailing 
formation  of  this  mountain. — Our  walk  along  the  Derwent 
having  extended  as  far  as  my  limited  time  would  admit, 
we  returned  to  one  of  the  village  inns,  where  I  parted 
with  a  person,  whose  conversation  and  suavity  of  manners, 
more  than  the  poetry  and  the  prose,  which  have  placed 
him  among  the  most  prominent  of  living  authors,  have  left 
an  impression  which  I  shall  delight  in  cherishing. 


Christmas. — IRVING. 

THERE  is  nothing  in  England  that  exercises  a  more 
delightful  spell  over  my  imagination  than  the  lingerings  of 
the  holyday  customs  and  rural  games  of  former  times. 
They  recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the 
May-morning  of  my  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the 
world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that  poets 
had  painted  ;  and  they  bring  with  them  the  flavour  of  those 
honest  days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps  with  equal  fallacy, 
I  am  apt  to  think  the  world  was  more  home-bred,  social, 
and  joyous,  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say,  that  they 
are  daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being  gradually 
worn  away  by  time,  but  still  more  obliterated  by  modern 
fashion.  They  resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of 
Gothic  architecture,  which  we  see  crumbling  in  various 
parts  of  the  country,  partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of 
ages,  and  partly  lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  lat 
ter  days.  Poetry,  however,  clings  with  cherishing  fond 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  229 

ness  about  the  rural  game  and  holyday  revel,  from  which 
U  has  derived  so  many  of  its  themes — as  the  ivy  winds  its 
rich  foliage  about  the  gothic  arch  and  mouldering  tower, 
jfratefully  repaying  th^ir  support,  by  clasping  together 
iheir  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them 
in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas  awak 
ens  the  strongest  and  most  heart-felt  associations.  There 
is  a  tone  of  sacred  and  solemn  feeling,  that  blends  with  our 
conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and 
elevated  enjoyment.  The  services  of  the  church  about 
this  season  are  extremely  tender  and  inspiring.  They 
dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our  faith,  and 
the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its  announcement. 
They  gradually  increase  in  fervour  and  pathos  during  the 
season  of  Advent,  until  they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on 
the  morning  that  brought  peace  and  good-will  to  men.  I 
do  not  know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  the  moral  feel 
ings,  than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ 
performing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and  filling 
every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days  of 
yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  announce 
ment  of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made  the 
season  for  gathering  together  of  family  connexions,  and 
drawing  closer  again  those  bands  of  kindred  hearts,  which 
the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the  world  are  con 
tinually  operating  to  cast  loose ;  of  calling  back  the  chil 
dren  of  a  family  who  have  launched  forth  in  life,  and  wan 
dered  widely  asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about  the 
paternal  hearth,  that  rallying  place  of  the  affections,  there 
to  grow  young  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing 
mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year,  that 
gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other 
times  we  derive  a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the 
beauties  of  nature.  Our  feelings  sally  forth,  and  dissipate 
themselves  over  the  sunny  landscape,  and  we  "  live  abroad 
ar.I  every  where."  The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of 
the  si  ream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of  spring,  the  soft 
voluptuousness  of  s  ^mmer,  the  golden  pomp  of  autumn, 

20 


230  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

earth,  with  its  mantle  of  refreshing  green,  and  heaven, 
with  its  deep,  delicious  blue,  and  its  cloudy  magnificence, 
all  fill  us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel  iu 
the  luxury  of  mere  sensation.  But  ra  the  depth  of  win 
ter,  when  Nature  lies  despoiled  of  every  charm,  and 
wrapped  in  her  shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our 
gratifications  to  moral  sources.  The  dreariness  and  deso 
lation  of  the  landscape,  the  short,  gloomy  days,  and  dark 
some  nights,  while  they  circumscribe  our  wanderings,  shut 
in  our  feelings,  also,  from  rambling  abroad,  and  make  us 
more  keenly  disposed  for  the  pleasures  of  the  social  circle. 
Our  thoughts  are  more  concentrated  ;  our  friendly  sympa 
thies  more  aroused.  We  feel  more  sensibly  the  charm  of 
each  other's  society,  and  are  brought  more  closely  togeth 
er  by  dependence  on  each  o.ther  for  enjoyment.  Heart 
calleth  unto  heart,  and  we  draw  our  pleasures  from  the 
deep  wells  of  living  kindness,  which  lie  in  the  deep  recesses 
of  our  bosoms,  and  which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish  forth 
the  pure  element  of  domestic  felicity.  The  pitchy  gloom 
without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  entering  the  room  filled 
with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the  evening  fire.  The  ruddy 
blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sunshine  through 
the  room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance  into  a  kindlier 
welcome.  Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hospitality 
expand  into  a  broadsr  and  more  cordial  smile — where  is 
the  shy  glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent — than  by  the 
winter  fire-side  ?  And,  as  the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind 
rushes  through  the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles 
about  the  casement,  and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what 
can  be  more  grateful  than  that  feeling  of  sober  and  shel 
tered  security,  with  which  we  look  round  upon  the  com 
fortable  chamber,  and  the  scene  of  domestic  hilarity  ? 


Declaration  of  American  Independence. — JEFFERSON. 

WHEX,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes 
necessary  for  one  people  to  dissolve  the  political  bands 
which  have  connected  them  with  another,  and  to  assume, 
among  the  powers  of  the  earth,  the  separate  and  equal  sta* 


COMMON-FLACK    ROOK  OF  PROSE.  231 

tion,  to  which  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  nature's  God 
Entitle  them,  a  decent  respect  to  the  opinions  of  mankind 
requires  that  they  should  declare  the  causes  which  impel 
them  to  the  separation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident : — that  all  men 
are  created  equal ;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator 
with  certain  unalienable  rights  ;  that  among  these  are  life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness ;  that,  to  secure  these 
rights,  governments  are  instituted  among  men,  deriving 
their  just  powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed  ;  that, 
whenever  any  form  of  government  becomes  destructive  of 
these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or  to  abolish  it, 
and  to  institute  a  new  government,  laying  its  foundation  on 
such  principles,  and  organizing  its  powers  in  such  form,  as 
to  them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety  and 
happiness.  Prudence,  indeed,  will  dictate,  that  govern 
ments  long  established  should  not  be  changed  for  light  and 
transient  causes ;  and,  accordingly,  all  experience  hath 
shown,  that  mankind  are  more  disposed  to  suffer,  while 
evils  are  sufferable,  than  to  right  themselves  by  abolishing 
the  forms  to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But  when  a 
long  train  of  abuses  and  usurpations,  pursuing  invariably 
the  same  object,  evinces  a  design  to  reduce  them  undei 
absolute  despotism,  it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty,  to 
throw  off  such  government,  and  to  provide  new  guards  for 
their  future  security.  Such  has  been  the  patient  suffer 
ance  of  these  colonies,  and  such  is  now  the  necessity 
which  constrains  them  to  alter  their  former  systems  of 
government.  The  history  of  the  present  king  of  Great 
Britain  is  a  history  of  repeated  injuries  and  usurpations,  all 
having  in  direct  object  the  establishment  of  an  absolute 
tyranny  over  these  states.  To  prove  this,  let  facts  be  sub 
mitted  to  a  candid  world. 

He  has  refused  his  assent  to  laws  the  most  wholesome 
and  nscessary  for  the  public  good.  He  has  forbidden  his 
governors  to  pass  laws  of  immediate  and  pressing  impor 
tance,  unless  suspended  in  their  operation  till  his  assent 
should  be  obtained  ;  and,  when  so  suspended,  he  has  utterly 
neglected  to  attend  to  them  He  has  refused  to  pass  other 
laws  for  the  accommodation  of  large  districts  of  people, 
unless  those  people  would  relinquish  the  right  of  represeo- 


232  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

tation  in  the  legislature — a  right  inestimable  to  them,  anA 
formidable  to  tyrants  only.  He  has  called  together  legis 
lative  bodies,  at  places  unusual,  uncomfortable,  and  distant 
from  the  depositories  of  their  public  records,  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  fatiguing  them  into  compliance  with  his  meas 
ures.  He  has  dissolved  representatives  houses,  repeatedly, 
for  opposing,  with  manly  firmness,  his  invasions  on  the 
rights  of  the  people.  He  has  refused,  for  a  long  time  after 
such  dissolutions,  to  cause  others  to  be  elected  ;  whereby 
the  legislative  powers,  incapable  of  annihilation,  have  re 
turned  to  the  people  at  large  for  their  exercise  ;  the  state 
remaining,  in  the  mean  time,  exposed  to  all  the  danger  of 
invasion  from  without,  and  convulsions  within.  He  has 
endeavoured  to  prevent  the  population  of  these  states  ;  for 
that  purpose  obstructing  the  laws  for  naturalization  of  for 
eigners  ;  refusing  to  pass  others,  to  encourage  their  migra 
tion  hither,  and  raising  the  conditions  of  new  appropriations 
of  lands.  He  has  obstructed  the  administration  of  justice, 
by  refusing  his  assent  to  laws  fer  establishing  judiciary 
powers.  He  has  made  judges  dependent  on  his  will,  alone, 
for  the  tenure  of  their  offices,  and  the  amount  and  pay 
ment  of  their  salaries.  He  has  erected  a  multitude  of  new 
offices,  and  sent  hither  swarms  of  officers  to  harass  our 
people,  and  eat  out  their  substance.  He  has  kept  among 
us,  in  times  of  peace,  standing  armies,  without  the  consent 
of  our  legislatures.  He  has  affected  to  render  the  milita 
ry  independent  of,  and  superior  to,  the  civil  power.  He 
has  combined  with  others  to  subject  us  to  a  jurisdiction 
foreign  to  our  constitution,  and  unacknowledged  by  our 
laws ;  giving  his  assent  to  their  acts  of  pretended  legisla 
tion, — for  quartering  large  bodies  of  armed  troops  among 
us  ;  for  protecting  them,  by  a  mock  trial,  from  punishment 
for  any  murders  which  they  should  commit  on  the  inhabit 
ants  of  these  states;  for  cutting  off  our  trade  with  all  parts 
?f  the  world  ;  for  imposing  taxes  on  us  without  our  con 
sent  ;  for  depriving  us,  in  many  cases,  of  the  benefits  of 
trial  by  jury  ;  for  transporting  us  beyond  seas,  to  be  tried 
for  pretended  offences :  for  abolishing  the  free  system  of 
English  laws  in  a  neighbouring  province,  establishing  there 
in  an  arbitrary  government,  and  enlarging  its  boundarie'a 
so  as  to  render  it  at  once  an  example,  and  fit  instrument, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  233 

for  introducing  the  same  absolute  rule  into  these  colonies ; 
for  taking  away  our  charters,  abolishing  our  most  valuable 
laws,  and  altering  fundamentally  the  forms  of  our  govern 
ments  ;  for  suspending  our  own  legislatures,  and  declaring 
themselves  invested  with  power  to  legislate  for  us  in  all 
cases  whatsoever.  He  has  abdicated  government  here,  by 
declaring  us  out  of  his  protection,  and  waging  war  against 
us.  He  has  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  coasts,  burned 
our  towns,  and  destroyed  the  lives  of  our  people.  He  is  at 
this  time  transporting  large  armies  of  foreign  mercenaries, 
to  complete  the  work  of  death,  desolation,  and  tyracny,  al 
ready  begun,  with  circumstances  of  cruelty  and  perfidy, 
scarcely  paralleled  in  the  most  barbarous  ages,  and  totally 
unworthy  the  head  of  a  civilized  nation.  He  has  con 
strained  our  fellow-citizens,  taken  captive  on  the  high  seas, 
to  bear  arms  against  their  country,  to  become  the  execu 
tioners  of  their  friends  and  brethren,  or  to  fall  themselves 
by  their  hands.  He  has  excited  domestic  insurrections 
amongst  us,  and  has  endeavoured  to  bring  on  the  inhabitants 
of  our  frontiers  the  merciless  Indian  savages,  whose  known 
rule  of  warfare  is,  an  undistinguished  destruction  of  all 
ages,  sexes,  and  conditions. 

In  every  stage  of  these  oppressions,  we  have  petitioned  for 
redress  in  the  most  humble  terms.  Our  repeated  petitions  have 
been  answered  only  by  repeated  injury.  A  prince,  whose 
character  is  thus  marked  by  every  act  which  may  define  a 
tyrant,  is  unfit  to  be  the  ruler  of  a  free  people. — Nor  have 
we  been  wanting  in  attention  to  our  British  brethren.  We 
have  warned  them,  from  time  to  time,  of  attempts  made 
by  their  legisliture  to  extend  an  unwarrantable  jurisdic 
tion  over  us.  We  have  reminded  them  of  the  circumstan 
ces  of  our  emigration  and  settlement  here.  We  have  ap 
pealed  to  their  native  justice  and  magnanimity,  and  we 
have  conjured  them,  by  the  ties  of  our  common  kindred, 
to  disavow  these  usurpations,  which  would  inevitably  in 
terrupt  our  connexions  and  correspondence.  They,  too 
have  been  deaf  to  the  voice  of  justice  and  of  consanguinity 
We  must  therefore  acquiesce  in  the  necessity  which  de 
nounces  our  separation  ;  and  hold  them,  as  we  hold  the  real 
of  mankind, — enemies  in  war, — in  peace,  friend*. 
20* 


234  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PIIOSE. 

We,  therefore,  the  representatives  of  the  United  State* 
of  America,  in  general  congress  assembled,  appealing  to 
the  Supreme  Judge  of  the  world  for  the  rectitude  of  our 
:'iitentions,  do,  in  the  name  and  by  the  authority  of  the  good 
people  of  these  colonies,  solemnly  publish  and  declare,  that 
these  united  colonies  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  free  and 
independent  states ;  that  they  are  absolved  from  all  alle 
giance  to  the  British  crown,  and  that  all  political  connex 
ion  between  them  and  the  state  of  Great  Britain  is,  and 
ought  to  be,  totally  dissolved ;  and  that,  as  free  and  inde 
pendent  states,  they  have  full  power  to  levy  war,  conclude 
peace,  contract  alliances,  establish  commerce,  and  to  do  ail 
other  acts  and  things  which  independent  states  may  of 
right  do.  And  for  the  support  of  this  Declaration,  with 
a  firm  reliance  on  the  protection  of  Divine  Providence, 
we  mutually  pledge  to  each  other  our  lives,  our  fortunes, 
and  our  sacred  honour. 


Mementos  of  the  Instability  of  human  Existence. — 
FITCH. 

WE  have  such  a  memento  in  the  fact,  that  others,  who 
have  been  sharing  with  us  in  our  privileges,  are  constant- 
.y  leaving  the  world.  They  who  dwell  with  us  in  the  city 
of  our  residence  on  earth — beings  of  immortality — are 
constantly  bidding  us  adieu,  and  entering  into  eternity.  All 
our  privileges  thus  become  associated  with  the  memory  of 
former  companions,  who  once  had  their  abode  below.  They 
dwelled  with  us  but  a  few  days,  they  scarcely  made  them 
selves  known  to  us,  when  they  gave  the  farewell  look, 
pressed  the  parting  hand,  bade  adieu,  and  entered  on  an 
abode  in  eternity.  The  tolling  bell,  the  mournful  proces 
sion,  the  grave  of  their  relics,  the  erected  monument,  sig 
nalized  their  departure  ;  and  now  all  around  the  city  of  our 
abode  are  the  traces  of  their  former  presence,  reminding  us 
of  our  having  no  continuing  residence  here.  We  look  bac.k 
at  the  days  they  passed  with  us  before  they  entered  into 
eternity,  and  they  appear  to  us  but  a  hand  breadth  ;  and, 
from  their  dwellh  g  in  eternity,  we  seem  to  hear  them  ?ay, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  235 

as  we  miss  them  from  the  scenes  in  which  they  once  min 
gled  with  us,  that  these  are  scenes  where  pilgrims  to  eter. 
nity  tarry  but  a  day.  When  in  the  habitations  where  they 
once  dwelt  with  us,  or  in  the  streets  where  they  walked  with 
us,  or  the  sanctuary  to  which  they  went  with  us  in  company, 
or  at  the  mercy-scat  where  they  once  bent  with  us  the  knee 
of  devotion,  or  by  the  Scriptures  before  which  they  once 
listened  with  us  to  the  words  of  Jesus  Christ,  we  look  for 
them,  but  they  are  gone  ;  the  place  which  they  once  occu 
pied  at  our  side  is  vacant ;  they  are  far  from  us  in  their 
eternal  dwelling ;  and  the  places  where  we  once  knew 
them  are  now  so  many  mementos,  that  here  we  ourselves 
have  no  continuing  city. 

We  have  another  continual  memento  of  this  fact,  in  the 
advancement  we  are  constantly  making  ourselves  towards 
eternity.  Every  thing  in  the  city  of  our  residence  on 
earth  reminds  us,  that  we  are  never  stationary  in  it,  but  are 
always  advancing  towards  the  period  of  our  final  departure. 
We  have  entered  into  a  scene  of  divine  wonders,  but  we 
cannot  delay  to  spend  our  existence  here  in  gazing  upon 
them ;  we  are  constantly  in  motion,  urging  our  way  through 
them  to  an  eternal  dwelling.  Each  breaking  morn,  each 
radiant  noon,  each  shadowy  eve,  as  they  pass  by  us,  make 
no  tarrying,  but  pass  us  never  more  to  return.  The  joc 
und  Spring,  Summer,  with  his  swarms  of  life,  Autumn, 
with  her  golden  harvest,  Winter,  with  his  icy  sceptre  and 
his  snowy  robes,  as  each  year  they  pass  us,  are  in  constant 
motion,  and,  while  we  greet  them,  take  their  leave  of  us 
forever.  Each  changing  scene  of  life  arrests  our  minds, 
enlists  our  feelings  ;  then  takes  its  final  leave  of  us,  the 
sons  of  eternity.  Creeping  infancy,  merry  boyhood,  as 
piring  youth,  industrious  manhood,  decrepit  age,  we  meet 
in  swift  succession ;  just  greet,  and  bid  adieu  for  eternity. 
In  the  midst  of  all  the  privileges  of  our  city  here  below, 
do  our  advancing  steps  towards  the  eternal  world  serve 
constantly  to  remind  us,  that  here  we  have  no  permanent 
dwelling.  The  aggregate  of  days  that  have  passed  by  us, 
the  yearly  seasons,  the  scenes  of  life,  and  periods  of  age, 
since  we  came  into  possession  of  our  privileges, — since  we 
first  knew  our  dwellings,  walked  our  streets,  and  entered 
our  sanctuaries,  and  heard  the  words  of  God, — are  so  many 


236  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE 

advances  towards  eternity ;  and  tell,  as  they  th'.cken  o* 
the  path  we  leave,  how  soon  we  reach  the  close  of  our  pil 
grimage,  and  enter  upon  unknown  worlds. 

We  have  another  constant  memento  of  the  fact,  again,  in 
our  inability  of  prolonging  our  continuance  in  the  world. 
We  have  constant  notices  around  us  of  our  frailty,  and  ina 
bility  to  continue  to  ourselves  our  present  privileges  for  the 
future.  Even  in  the  city  of  our  privileges  below,  do  we 
see  ourselves  hurried  on,  by  an  unseen  hand  we  cannot 
control ;  the  almighty  Guide  who  conducts  us  seems  un 
willing  we  should  stay  ;  the  God  of  our  spirits,  who  goes 
with  us,  designs  we  should  have  our  settled  dwelling  in 
eternity ;  and  soon  he  will  bring  us  to  the  gates  of  the 
city,  and,  at  the  bidding  we  cannot  resist,  must  we  lake 
our  leave  of  it  for  eternity.  Around  us,  every  thing  is  be 
tokening  his  design  of  our  departure  and  our  inability  to 
prolong  our  stay.  The  frail  hold  we  take  of  every  earthly 
possession  tells  that  our  grasp  on  none  is  for  eternity.  We 
are  hurried  on  from  object  to  object,  before  we  can  call 
any  thing  ours.  We  meet  friends,  but,  while  we  cling 
to  them,  the  unseen  hand  of  Providence  tears  us  away 
from  their  embrace.  Beauty  we  would  linger  here  to  ad 
mire,  but,  while  we  look,  the  grace  of  the  fashion  of  it 
perisheth.  Power  just  takes  us  by  the  hand,  and  bids  us 
adieu  to  greet  a  successor.  Fame  crowns  us  with  her 
wreath,  but,  while  we  feel  the  rising  flush  of  joy,  she 
plucks  it  off  to  sport  with  others.  Wealth  comes  to  feast 
us,  and  roll  us  in  his  car  of  pleasures,  and,  while  accepting 
his  proposals,  he  dismisses  us  to  tempt  some  other  pilgrims 
on  their  way  to  eternity.  The  unseen  hand  of  Providence 
thus  tears  us  away  from  object  after  object,  to  show  that 
here  is  not  our  rest,  and  that  our  hold  on  earth  is  frail  and 
giving  way.  Around  the  city  of  our  habitation,  too,  are 
the  messengers  he  sends  to  warn  us  of  this  r.pproaching 
departure.  Decay  stands  with  tottering  limbs  and  feeble 
breath,  and  lisps  to  us,  with  dying  life,  that  we  draw  nigh 
the  gales  of  our  habitation,  and  soon  will  leave  it  for  eter 
nal  worlds.  Diseases — busy  messengers — fly  here  and 
there,  to  tell  us  of  our  frail  abode,  and  whisper  in  our  ears 
"  eternity."  Death,  armed  with  resistless  power,  stands 
with  his  commissions,  and  their  unknown  dates,  to  lead  us 


COMMON-PLAQP  BOOK  OF  PKOSE.  287 

jut  of  our  residence  below,  and  bar  on  us  its  gates  forever 
Every  where  in  the  city  of  our  abode  are  we  reminded, 
that  we  have  not  the  power  to  prolong  our  stay  in  it,  and 
that  soon  we  shall  leave  its  privileges,  its  dwellings,  its 
streets,  its  sanctuaries,  its  Scriptures,  its  busy  throng,  for 
eternity. 

There  is  another  means  reminding  us  constantly  of  this 
fact, — the  voice  of  God.  In  the  city  of  our  habitation  be 
low,  God  has  published  his  glories,  his  statutes,  his  offers 
of  pardon  and  assistance,  for  our  use  as  sojourners  here, 
who  are  passing  to  eternity.  He,  the  infinite  Bcvng,  who 
is  from  everlasting  to  everlasting  himself,  has  conferred  on 
us  an  existence,  that  is  to  continue  and  grow  up  by  the 
side  of  his,  through  everlasting  ages.  He  has  beheld  us, 
in  the  first  stages  of  our  being  here,  engaged  in  unrighteous 
rebellion  against  his  authority,  and  bent  on  neglect  of  his 
glories  ;  and,  moved  with  pity,  sent  his  everlasting  Son  to 
atone  for  our  guilt,  and  to  call  us  to  repentance,  and  his 
Holy  Spirit  to  indite  his  will,  and  influence  us  to  obedience. 
In  our  habitation  we  have  his  word ;  here  temples  are 
erected  for  his  service ;  a  day  is  appointed  by  him  for  men 
to  assemble ;  ministers  commissioned  to  teach  ;  and  they 
who  love  his  name  speak  to  one  another  and  to  their  fellow- 
men  of  his  designs.  Wherever  we  go,  then,  the  voice  of 
God  is  reaching  us,  and  re-echoing  the  truth,  that  we  are 
beings  whose  final  dwelling-place  is  eternity,  and  who  have 
here  no  continuing  city.  The  Bible,  wherever  it  meets 
our  eye,  reiterates  the  voice  of  God,  that  we  must  die  and 
rise  again  in  other  worlds.  In  each  reproof  of  conscience, 
hh  awful  voice  is  heard  to  speak  a  reckoning  day  in  eter 
nity.  In  each  act  we  do  for  God  or  for  his  kingdom  here, 
his  voice  of  love  whispers  of  eternal  joys.  Each  revolving 
S.ibbath,  with  its  pealing  bells,  and  open  sanctuaries,  and 
solemn  rites,  bears  on  its  hours  his  voice,  that  warns  us  of 
an  abode  in  heaven  or  hell.  Each  sermon  is  the  call  he 
makes  to  hear  his  voice  to-day.  In  each  season  of  prayer 
we  hear  him  say,  that  we  have  not  reached  our  home — • 
that  we  are  pilgrims  here.  From  the  throne  of  glory,  on 
which  he  will  sit  in  judgment,  and  assign  us  our  dwelling 
in  eternity,  the  Saviour  now  sends  down  the  voice  of  mo« 


238  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

nition ;  and,  while  it  rolls  round  the  world  we  dwell  in,  tes 
thousand  messengers  echo  back  the  voice  to  our  ears,  that 
"  here  we  have  no  continuing  city." 


Description  of  the  Preaching  of  Whitfield. — 
Miss  FRANCIS. 

THERE  was  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  this  extraor 
dinary  man,  which  would  lead  you  to  suppose  that  a  Felix 
could  tremble  before  him.  "  He  was  something  above 
the  middle  stature,  well  proportioned,  and  remarkable  for 
a  native  gracefulness  of  manner.  His  complexion  was  very 
fair,  his  features  regular,  and  his  dark  blue  eyes  small  and 
lively  :  in  recovering  from  the  measles,  he  had  contracted 
a  squint  with  one  of  them  ;  but  this  peculiarity  rather  ren- 
d,ered  the  expression  of  his  countenance  more  remember- 
able,  than  in  any  degree  lessened  the  effect  of  its  uncom 
mon  sweetness.  His  voice  excelled,  both  in  melody  and 
compass ;  and  its  fine  modulations  were  happily  accompa 
nied  by  that  grace  of  action,  which  he  possessed  in  an  em 
inent  degree,  and  which  has  been  said  to  be  the  chief 
requisite  for  an  orator."  To  have  seen  him  when  he  first 
commenced,  one  would  have  thought  him  any  thing  but 
enthusiastic  and  glowing ;  but,  as  he  proceeded,  his  heart 
warmed  with  his  subject,  and  his  manner  became  impetu 
ous  and  animated,  till,  forgetful  of  every  thing  around  him, 
he  seemed  to  kneel  at  the  throne  of  Jehovah,  and  to  be 
seech  in  agony  for  his  fellow-beings. 

After  he  had  finished  his  prayer,  he  knelt  for  a  long 
time  in  profound  silence ;  and  so  powerfully  had  it  affected 
the  most  heartless  of  his  audieiice,  that  a  stillness  like  that 
of  the  tomb  pervaded  the  whole  house.  Before  he  com 
menced  his  sermon,  long,  darkening  columns  crowded  the 
bright,  sunny  sky  of  the  morning,  and  swept  their  dull 
shadows  over  the  building,  in  fearful  augury  of  the  storm. 

His  text  was,  "  Strive  to  enter  in  at  the  strait  gate  ;  for 
many,  I  say  unto  you,  shall  seek  to  enter  in,  ani  shall  not 
be  able."  "  See  that  emblem  of  human  life,"  said  he. 
pointing  to  a  shadow  that  was  flittng  acrosr  the  floor.  "  It 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  239 

passed  for  a  moment,  and  concealed  the  brightness  of  heav 
en  from  our  view  : — but  it  is  gone.  And  where  will  ye 
be.  my  hearers,  when  your  lives  have  passed  away  like 
that  dark  cloud  ?  Oh,  my  dear  friends,  I  see  thousands 
sitting  attentive,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  poor,  unwor 
thy  preacher.  In  a  few  days,  we  shall  all  meet  at  the  judg 
ment-seat  of  Christ.  We  shall  form  a  part  of  that  vast 
assembly  that  will  gather  before  the  throne ;  and  every 
eye  will  behold  the  judge.  With  a  voice  whose  call  you 
must  abide  and  answer,  he  will  inquire  whether  on  earth 
ye  strove  to  enter  in  at  the  strait  gate  ;  whether  you  were 
supremely  devoted  to  God  ;  whether  your  hearts  were  ab 
sorbed  in  him.  My  blood  runs  cold  when  I  think  how 
many  of  you  will  then  seek  to  enter  in,  and  shall  not  be 
able.  Oh,  what  plea  can  you  make  before  the  Judge  of 
the  whole  earth  ?  Can  you  say  it  has  been  your  whole 
endeavour  to  mortify  the  flesh,  with  its  affections  and  lusts  ? 
that  your  life  has  been  one  long  effort  to  do  the  will  of 
God  ?  No !  you  must  answer,  I  made  myself  easy  in  the 
world  by  flattering  myself  that  all  would  end  well ;  but  I 
have  deceived  my  own  soul,  and  am  lost. 

"  You,  O  false  and  hollow  Christian,  of  what  avail  will 
it  be  that  you  have  done  many  things ;  that  you  have  read 
much  in  the  sacred  word  ;  that  you  have  made  long  prayers ; 
that  you  have  attended  religious  duties,  and  appeared  holy 
in  the  eyes  of  men  ?  What  will  all  this  be,  if,  instead  ot 
loving  Him  supremely,  you  have  been  supposing  you  should 
exalt  yourself  in  heaven  by  acts  really  polluted  and  un 
holy  ? 

"  And  you,  rich  man,  wherefore  do  you  hoard  your  sil 
ver  ?  wherefore  count  the  price  you  have  received  for  him 
whom  you  every  day  crucify  in  your  love  of  gain  ?  Why, 
that,  when  you  are  too  poor  to  buy  a  drop  of  cold  water, 
your  beloved  son  may  be  rolled  to  hell  in  his  chariot  pil 
lowed  and  cushioned  around  him." 

His  eye  gradually  lighted  up,  as  he  proceeded,  till, 
towards  the  close,  it  seemed  to  sparkle  with  celestial  fire. 

"  Oh,  sinners !"  he  exclaimed,  "  by  all  your  hopes  of 
happiness,  I  beseech  you  to  repent.  Let  not  the  wrath  of 
God  be  awakened.  Let  not  the  fires  of  eternity  be  kin 
dled  against  you.  See  there  '"  said  he,  pointing  to  the 


24U  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

lightning,  which  played  on  the  corner  of  the  pulpit — "  'Tis 
a  gltnce  from  the  angry  eye  of  Jehovah  !  Hark !"  con 
tinued  he,  raising  his  finger  in  a  listening  attitude,  as  the 
distant  thunder  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  broke  in  one 
tremendous  crash  over  the  building.  "  It  was  the  voice 
of  the  Almighty  as  he  passed  by  in  his  anger  !" 

As  the  sound  died  away,  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  and  knelt  beside  his  pulpit,  apparently  lost  in  inward 
and  intense  prayer.  The  storm  passed  rapidly  away,  and 
the  sun,  bursting  forth  in  his  might,  threw  across  the  heav 
ens  a  magnificent  arch  of  peace.  Rising,  and  pointing  to 
the  beautiful  object,  he  exclaimed,  "  Look  upon  the  rain 
bow,  and  praise  him  that  made  it.  Very  beautiful  it  is  in 
the  brightness  thereof.  It  compasseth  the  heavens  about 
with  glory  ;  and  the  hands  of  the  Most  High  have  bend 
ed  it." 

The  effect  was  astonishing.  Even  Somerville  shaded 
his  eyes  when  he  pointed  to  the  lightning,  and  knelt  as  he 
listened  to  the  approaching  thunder ;  while  the  deep  sen 
sibility  of  Grace,  and  the  thoughtless  vivacity  of  Lucre- 
tia,  yielded  to  the  powerful  excitement  in  an  unrestrained 
burst  of  tears.  "  Who  could  resist  such  eloquence  ?"  said 
Lucretia,  as  they  mingled  with  the  departing  throng. 


Jlnecdote  of  Dr.  Chauncy. — TUDOR. 

DR.  COOPER,  who  was  a  man  of  accomplished  manners, 
arid  fond  of  society,  was  able,  by  the  aid  of  his  fine  talents, 
to  dispense  with  some  of  the  severe  study  that  others  en 
gaged  in.  This,  however,  did  not  escape  the  envy  and 
malice  of  the  world,  and  it  was  said,  in  a  kind  of  petulant 
and  absurd  exaggeration,  that  he  used  to  walk  to  the  south- 
end  of  a  Saturday,  and,  if  he  saw  a  man  riding  into  town 
in  a  black  coat,  would  stop,  and  ask  him  to  preach  tho 
next  day.  Dr.  Chauncy  was  a  close  student,  very  absent, 
and  very  irritable.  On  these  traits  in  the  character  of  the 
two  clergymen,  a  servant  of  Dr.  Chauncy  laid  a  scheme 
for  obtaining  a  particular  object  from  his  master.  Scipio 
went  into  his  master's  study  one  morning  to  receive  some 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  241 

dhections,  which  the  doctor  having  given,  resumed- his  writ 
ing,  but  the  servant  still  remained.  The  master,  looking 
up  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  and  supposing  he  had 
just  come  in,  said,  "  Scipio,  what  do  you  want  ?"  "  I  want 
a  new  coat,  massa."  "  Well,  go  to  Mrs.  Chauncy,  and 
tell  her  to  give  you  one  of  my  old  coats ;"  and  was  again 
absorbed  in  his  studies.  The  servant  remained  fixed.  Af 
ter  a  while,  the  doctor,  turning  his  eyes  that  way,  saw  him 
again,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  want, 
Scip.  ?"  "  I  want  a  new  coat,  massa."  "  Well,  go  to  my 
.vife,  and  ask  her  to  give  you  one  of  my  old  coats;"  and 
fell  to  writing  once  more.  Scipio  remained  in  the  same 
posture.  After  a  few  moments,  the  doctor  looked  towards 
him,  and  repeated  the  former  question,  "  Scipio,  what  do 
you  want .'"  "  I  want  a  new  coat,  massa."  It  now  flashed 
over  the  doctor's  mind,  that  there  was  something  of  repe 
tition  in  this  dialogue.  "  Why,  have  I  not  told  you  before 
to  ask  Mrs.  Chauncy  to  give  you  one  ?  get  away."  "  Yes, 
massa,  but  I  no  want  a  black  coat."  "  Not  want  a  black 
coat !  why  not  ?"  "  Why,  massa, — I  'fraid  to  tell  you, — 
but  I  don't  want  a  black  coat."  "  What's  the  reason  you 
don't  want  a  black  coat  ?  tell  me  directly."  "  0 !  massn, 
1  don't  want  a  black  coat,  but  I  'fraid  to  tell  the  rea 
son,  you  so  passionate."  "  You  rascal !  will  you  tell  me 
the  reason  ?"  "  0  !  massa,  I'm  sure  you  be  angry."  "  If 
I  had  my  cane  here,  you  villain,  I'd  break  your  bones  : 
will  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?"  "  I  'fraid  to  tell  yoif, 
massa ;  I  know  you  be  angry."  The  doctor's  impatience 
was  now  highly  irritated,  and  Scipio,  perceiving,  by  his 
glance  at  the  tongs,  that  he  might  find  a  substitute  for  the 
cane,  and  that  he  was  sufficiently  excited,  said,  "  Well, 
massa,  you  make  me  tell,  but  I  know  you  be  angry — I 
'fraid,  massa,  if  I  wear  another  black  coat,  Dr.  Cooper  ask 
me  to  preach  for  him  !"  This  unexpected  termination  re 
alized  the  servant's  calculation  ;  his  irritated  master  burst 
into  a  laugh, — "  Go,  you  rascal,  get  my  hat  and  cane,  anu 
tell  Mrs.  Chauncy  she  may  give  you  a  coat  of  any  colour ; 
.a  red  one  if  you  choose."  Away  went  the  negro  to  his 
inisti  ess,  and  the  doctor  to  tell  the  story  to  his  friend,  Dr 
t'ooper. 

21 


242  COMMON-PLACE    HOOK  OF  PROSE. 


Effects  of  a  Dissolution  of  the  Federal  Uniuti. — 
HAMILTON. 

ASSUMING  it,  therefore,  as  an  established  truth,  that, 
in  case  of  disunion,  the  several  states,  or  such  combinations 
of  them  as  might  happen  to  be  formed  out  of  the  wreck  of 
the  general  confederacy,  would  be  subject  to  those  vicissi 
tudes  of  peace  and  war,  of  friendship  and  enmity  with  each 
other,  which  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  all  other  nations  not 
united  under  one  government,  let  us  enter  into  a  concise 
detail  of  some  of  the  consequences  that  would  attend  such 
a  situation. 

War  between  the  states,  in  the  first  periods  of  their  sep 
arate  existence,  would  be  accompanied  with  much  greater 
distresses  than  it  commonly  is  in  those  countries  where 
regular  military  establishments  have  long  obtained.  The 
disciplined  armies  always  kept  on  foot  on  the  continent  of 
Europe,  though  they  bear  a  malignant  aspect  to  liberty  and 
ecotoomy,  have,  notwithstanding,  been  productive  of  the 
singular  advantage  of  rendering  sudden  conquests  imprac 
ticable,  and  of  preventing  that  rapid  desolation,  which  used 
to  mark  the  progress  of  war  prior  to  their  introduction.  The 
art  of  fortification  has  contributed  to  the  same  ends.  The 
nations  of  Europe  are  encircled  with  chains  of  fortified 
places,  which  mutually  obstruct  invasion.  Campaigns  are 
wasted  in  reducing  two  or  three  fortified  garrisons,  to  gain 
admittance  into  an  enemy's  country.  Similar  impedi 
ments  occur  at  every  step,  to  exhaust  the  strength,  and 
delay  the  progress,  of  an  invader.  Formerly,  an  invading 
army  would  penetrate  into  the  heart  of  a  neighbouring 
country  almost  as  soon  as  intelligence  of  its  approach  could 
be  received  ;  but  now,  a  comparatively  small  force  of  disci 
plined  troops,  acting  on  the  defensive,  with  the  aid  of  posts, 
is  able  to  impede,  and  finally  to  frustrate,  the  purposes  of 
one  much  more  considerable.  The  history  of  war  in  tha 
quarter  of  the  globe  is  no  longer  a  history  of  nations  sub 
dued,  and  empires  overturned ;  but  of  towns  taken  and  re 
taken,  of  battles  that  decide  nothing,  of  retreats  more  ben 
eficial  than  victories,  of  much  effort  and  little  acquisi.  on. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  243 

In  this  country  the  scene  would  be  altogether  reversed. 
The  jealousy  of  military  establishments  would  postpone 
them  as  long  as  possible.  The  want  of  fortifications,  leav 
ing  the  frontier  of  one  state  open  to  another,  -vould  facili 
tate  inroads.  The  populous  states  would  with  little  diffi 
culty  overrun  their  less  populous  neighbours.  Conquests 
would  be  as  easy  to  be  made  as  difficult  to  be  retained. 
War,  therefore,  would  be  desultory  and  predatory.  Plun 
der  and  devastation  ever  march  in  the  train  of  irregulars. 
The  calamities  of  individuals  would  ever  make  the  princi 
pal  figure  in  events,  and  would  characterize  our  exploits. 

This  picture  is  not  too  highly  wrought;  though,  I  con 
fess,  it  would  not  long  remain  a  just  one.  Safety  from  ex 
ternal  danger  is  the  most  powerful  director  of  national  con 
duct  Even  the  ardent  love  of  liberty  will,  after  a  time, 
give  way  to  its  dictates.  The  violent  destruction  of  life 
and  property  incident  to  war,  the  continual  effort  and 
alarm  attendant  on  a  state  of  continual  danger,  will  com 
pel  nations  the  most  attached  to  liberty  to  resort  for  repose 
and  security  to  institutions,  which  have  a  tendency  to  de 
stroy  their  civil  and  political  rights.  To  be  more  safe,  they, 
at  length,  become  willing  to  run  the  risk  of  being  less  free,  t 
The  institutions  chiefly  alluded  to  are  STANDING  ARMIES, 
and  the  corresponding  appendages  of  military  establish 
ments.  Standing  armies,  it  is  said,  are  not  provided  against 
in  the  new  constitution  ;  and  it  is  thence  inferred  that  they 
would  exist  under  it.  This  inference,  from  the  very  forn? 
of  the  proposition,  is,  at  best,  problematical  and  uncertain 
But  standing  armies,  it  may  be  replied,  must  inevitably  re 
sult  from  a  dissolution  of  the  confederacy.  Frequent  wai 
and  constant  apprehension,  which  require  a  state  of  as  con 
stant  preparation,  will  infallibly  produce  them.  The  weak 
er  states  or  confederacies  would  first  have  recourse  to  them, 
to  put  themselves  on  an  equality  with  their  more  potent 
neighbours.  They  would  endeavour  to  supply  the  inferi 
ority  of  population  and  resources  by  a  more  regular  and 
effective  system  of  defence, — by  disciplined  troops,  and  by 
fortifications.  They  would,  at  the  same  time,  be  obliged 
to  strengthen  the  executive  arm  of  government ;  in  doing 
which  their  constitutions  would  require  a  progressive  di 
rection  towards  monarchy.  It  is  the  nature  ol  war  to  in 


S44  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSB. 

crease  the,  executive,  at  the  expense  of  the  legislative 
authority. 

The  expedients,  which  have  been  mentioned,  would  soon 
give  the  states,  or  confederacies,  that  made  use  of  them,  a 
superiority  over  their  neighbours.  Small  states,  or  <=tates 
of  less  natural  strength,  under  vigorous  governments,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  disciplined  armies,  have  often  tri 
umphed  over  large  states,  or  states  of  greater  natural 
strength,  which  have  been  destitute  of  these  advantages. 
Neither  the  pride  nor  the  safety  of  the  important  states,  or 
confederacies,  would  permit  them  long  to  submit  to  this  mor 
tifying  and  adventitious  superiority.  They  would  quickly  re 
sort  to  means  similar  to  those  by  which  it  had  been  effected, 
to  reinstate  themselves  in  their  lost  pre-eminence.  Thus  we 
should,  in  a  little  time,  see  established  in  every  part  of  this 
country  the  same  engines  of  despotism,  which  have  been 
the  scou/ge  of  the  old  world.  This,  at  least,  would  be  the 
natural  course  of  things  ;  and  our  reasonings  will  be  likely 
to  be  just,  in  proportion  as  they  are  accommodated  to  this 
standard.  These  are  not  vague  inferences  deduced  from 
speculative  defects  in  a  constitution,  tne  whole  power  of 
which  is  lodged  in  the  hands  of  the  people,  or  their  repre 
sentatives  and  delegates ;  they  are  solid  conclusions,  drawn 
from  the  natural  and  necessary  progress  of  human  affairs. 


If  we  are  wise  enough  to  preserve  the  union,  we  may 
for  ages  enjoy  an  advantage  similar  to  that  of  an  insulated 
situation.  Europe  is  at  a  great  distance  from  us.  Her 
colonies  in  our  vicinity  will  be  likely  to  continue  too  much 
disproportioned  in  strength  to  be  able  to  give  us  any  dan 
gerous  annoyance.  Extensive  military  establishments  can 
not,  in  this  position,  be  necessary  to  our  security.  But,  if 
we  should  be  disunited,  and  the  integral  parts  should  either 
remain  separated,  or,  which  is  most  probable,  should  be 
thrown  together  into  two  or  three  confederacies,  we  should 
be,  in  a  short  course  of  time,  in  the  predicament  of  the 
continental  powers  of  Europe.  Our  liberties  would  be  a 
prey  to  the  means  of  defending  ourselves  against  the 
ambition  end  jealousy  of  each  other. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  245 

This  is  an  idea  not  superficial  or  futile,  but  «olid  and 
weighty.  It  deserves  the  most  serious  and  mature  consid 
eration  of  every  prudent  and  honest  man,  of  whatever  par 
ty.  If  such  men  will  make  a  firm  and  solemn  pause,  and 
meditate  dispassionately  on  its  importance ;  if  they  wil 
contemplate  it  in  all  its  attitudes,  and  trace  it  to  all  its  con 
sequences,  they  will  not  hesitate  to  part  with  trivial  objec 
tions  to  a  constitution,  the  rejection  of  which  would,  in  all 
probability,  put  a  final  period  to  the  union.  The  airy  phan 
toms,  that  now  flit  before  the  distempered  imaginations  of 
some  of  its  adversaries,  would  then  quickly  give  place  to 
more  substantial  prospects  of  dangers,  real,  certain,  and 
extremely  formidable 


Sports  on  JVew  Year's  day. — PAULDING. 

"  Cold  and  raw  the  north  wi>  Is  blow, 

Bleak  in  the  morning  early 
All  the  hills  are  covered  witq  snow, 

And  winter's  now  come  fairly." 

WINTER,  with  silver  locks  and  sparkling  icicles,  now 
gradually  approached,  under  cover  of  his  north-west  winds, 
his  pelting  storms,  cold,  frosty  mornings,  and  bitter,  freez 
ing  nights.  And  here  we  will  take  occasion  to  express  our 
obligations  to  the  popular  author  of  the  PIONEERS,  for  the 
pleasure  we  have  derived  from  his  happy  delineations  of 
the  progress  of  our  seasons,  and  the  successive  changes 
which  mark  their  course.  All  that  remember  their  youth 
ful  days  in  the  country,  and  look  back  with  tender,  melan 
choly  enjoyment  upon  their  slippery  gambols  on  the  ice, 
their  Christmas  pies,  and  nut-crackings  by  the  cheerful 
fireside,  will  read  his  pages  with  a  gratified  spirit,  and 
thank  him  heartily  for  having  refreshed  their  memory 
with  the  half-effaced  recollections  of  scenes  and  manners, 
labours  and  delights,  which,  in  the  progress  of  Time,  and 
the  changes  which  every  where  mark  his  course,  will,  in 
some  future  age,  perhaps,  live  only  in  the  touches  of  his 
pen.  If,  in  the  course  of  our  history,  we  should  chance 
to  dwell  upon  scenes  somewhat  similar  to  those  he  de- 
21  • 


246  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK.  OF  PROSE. 

scribes,  or  to  mark  the  varying  tints  of  our  seasons  witk 
a  sameness  of  colouring,  let  us  not  be  stigmatized  with 
Don-owing  from  him,  since  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  b€ 
true  to  nature,  without  seeming  to  have  his  sketches  in  oui 
eye. 

The  holydays,  those  wintry  blessings,  which  cheer  the 
heart  of  young  and  old,  and  give  to  the  gloomy  depths  ot 
winter  the  life  and  spirit  of  laughing,  jolly  spring,  wera 
now  near  at  hand.  The  chopping-knife  gave  token  of  good< 
iy  minced  pies, and  the-bustle  of  the  kitchen  afforded  shrew<l 
indications  of  what  was  coming  by  and  by.  The  celebra- 
ti?u  of  the  new  year,  it  is  well  known,  came  original^ 
from  the  northern  nations  of  Europe,  who  still  keep  up 
many  of  the  practices,  amusements,  and  enjoyments,  known 
to  their  ancestors.  The  Heer  Piper  valued  himself  upon 
being  a  genuine  northern  man,  and,  consequently,  held  the 
winter  holydays  in  special  favour  a,id  affection.  In  addi 
tion  to  this  hereditary  attachment  to  ancient  customs,  it  was 
shrewdly  suspected,  that  his  zeal  in  celebrating  these  good 
old  sports  was  not  a  little  quickened,  in  consequence  of  his 
mortal  antagonist,  William  Penn,  having  hinted,  in  the 
course  of  their  controversy,  that  the  practice  of  keeping 
holydays  savoured  not  only  of  Popery,  but  paganism. 

Before  the  Heer  consented  to  sanction  the  projects  ot.' 
Dominie  Kanttwell  for  abolishing  sports  and  ballads,  he 
stipulated  for  full  liberty,  on  the  part  of  himself  and  his 
people  of  Elsingburgh,  to  eat,  drink,  sing  and  frolic  as  much 
as  they  liked,  during  the  winter  holydays.  In  fact,  the 
Dominie  made  no  particular  opposition  to  this  suspension 
of  his  blue-laws,  being  somewhat  addicted  to  good  eating 
and  drinking,  whenever  the  occasion  justified  ;  that  is  to 
say,  whenever  such  accidents  came  in  his  way. 

It  had  long  been  the  custom  with  Governor  Piper  to 
usner  in  the  new  year  with  a  grand  supper,  to  which  the 
Dominie,  the  members  of  the  council,  and  certain  of  the 
most  respectable  burghers,  were  always  bidden.  This 
year,  he  determined  to  see  the  old  year  out,  and  the  new 
one  in,  as  the  phrase  was,  having  just  heard  of  a  great  vic 
tory  gained  by  the  Bulwark  of  the  Protestant  Religion,  the 
immortal  Gustavus  Adolphus  ;  which,  though  it  happened 
nearly  four  years  tefore,  had  only  now  reached  the  village 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  247 

of  Elsingburgh.  Accordingly,  the  Snow'  Ball  Bombie  was 
set  to  work  in  the  cooking  of  a  mortal  supper ;  which, 
agreeably  to  the  taste  of  West  Indian  epicures,  she  sea 
soned  with  such  enormous  quantities  of  red  pepper,  that 
whoever  ate  was  obliged  to  drink,  to  keep  his  mouth  from 
getting  on  fire,  like  unto  a  chimney. 

Exactly  at  ten  o'clock,  the  guests  sat  down  to  the  table 
where  they  ate  and  drank  to  the  success  of  the  Protestant 
cause,  the  glory  of  the  great  Gustavus,  the  downfall  of 
Popery  and  the  Quakers,  with  equal  zeal  and  patriotism 
The  instant  the  clock  struck  twelve,  a  round  was  fired  from 
the  fort,  and  a  vast  and  bottomless  bowl,  supposed  to  be  the 
identical  one  in  which  the  famous  wise  men  of  Gotham 
went  to  sea,  was  brought  in,  filled  to  the  utmost  brim  with 
smoking  punch.  The  memory  of  the  departed  year,  and 
the  hopes  of  the  future,  were  then  drank  in  a  special  bum 
per,  after  which  the  ladies  retired,  and  noise  and  fun  be 
came  the  order  of  the  night.  The  Heer  told  his  great 
storv  of  having  surprised  and  taken  a  whole  picket-guard, 
cnder  the  great  Gustavus  ;  and  each  of  the  guests  con 
tributed  his  tale,  taking  special  care,  however,  not  to  outdc 
their  ho?t  in  the  marvellous,' — a  thing  which  always  put  th€ 
Governor  out  of  humour. 

Counsellor  Langfanger  talked  wonderfully  about  puMic 
improvements  ;  Counsellor  Varlett  sung,  or  rather  roared, 
a  hundred  verses  of  a  song  in  praise  of  Rhenish  wine  ; 
and  Othman  Pfegel  smoked  and  tippled,  till  he  actually 
came  to  a  determination  of  bringii.g  matters  to  a  crisis  with 
the  fair  Christina  the  very  next  day.  Such  are  the  won 
der-working  powers  of  hot  punch  !  As  for  the  Dominie, 
he  departed  about  the  dawn  of  day,  in  such  a  plight,  that, 
if  it  had  not  been  impossible,  we  should  have  suspected 
him  of  being,  as  it  were,  a  little  overtaken  with  the  said 
punch.  To  one  or  two  persons,  who  chanced  to  see  him, 
he  actually  appeared  to  stagger  a  little  ;  but  such  was  the 
stout  faith  of  the  good  Dominie's  parishioners,  that  neither 
of  these  worthy  fellows  would  believe  his  own  eyes  suffi 
ciently  to  state  these  particulars. 

A  couple  of  hours'  sleep  sufficed  to  disperse  the  vapours 
of  punch  and  pepper-pot ;  for  heads  in  those  days  were 
much  harder  than  now,  and  the  Heer,  as  well  as  his  rols- 


248  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

tering  companions,  rose  betimes  to  give  and  receive  the 
compliments  and  good  wishes  of  the  season.  The  morning 
was  still,  clear,  and  frosty.  The  sun  shone  with  the  lus 
tre,  though  not  with  the  warmth,  of  summer,  and  his  bright 
beams  were  reflected,  with  indescribable  splendour,  from 
the  glassy,  smooth  expanse  of  ice,  that  spread  across,  and 
up  and  down  the  broad  river,  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 
The  smoke  of  the  village  chimneys  rose  straight  into  the 
air,  looking  like  so  many  inverted  pyramids,  spreading 
gradually  broader  and  broader,  until  they  melted  away, 
and  mixed  imperceptibly  with  ether.  Scarce  was  the  sun 
above  the  horizon,  when  the  village  was  alive  with  rosy 
boys  and  girls,  dressed  in  their  new  suits,  and  going  forth 
with  such  warm  anticipations  of  happiness,  as  time  and  ex 
perience  imperceptibly  fritter  away  into  languid  hopes,  or 
strengthening  apprehensions.  "  Happj  New  Year  !"  came 
from  every  mouth  and  every  heart.  Spiced  beverages 
and  lusty  cakes  were  given  away  with  liberal,  open  hand  ; 
every  body  was  welcomed  to  every  house  ;  all  seemed  to 
forget  their  little  heart-burnings  and  disputes  of  yore  ;  all 
seemed  happy,  and  all  were  so  ;  and  the  Dominie,  who  al 
ways  wore  his  coat  with  four  great  pockets  on  new-year 
day,  came  home  and  emptied  them  seven  times  of  loads 
of  new-year  cookies. 

When  the  gay  groups  had  finished  their  rounds  in  the 
village,  the  ice  in  front  was  seen  all  alive  with  the  small 
fry  of  ELsingburgh,  gamboling  and  skating,  sliding  and 
tumbling,  helter  skelter,  and  making  the  frost-bit  ears  of 
winter  glad  with  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  revelry.  In  one 
place  was  a  group  playing  at  hurley,  with  crooked  sticks, 
with  which  they  sometimes  hit  the  ball,  and  sometimes 
each  other's  shins ;  in  another,  a  knot  of  sliders,  following 
in  a  row,  so  that,  if  the  foremost  fell,  the  rest  were  sure  to 
tumble  over  him.  A  little  farther  might  be  seen  a  few,  that 
had  the  good  fortune  to  possess  a  pair  of  skates,  luxuriat 
ing  in  that  most  graceful  of  all  exercises,  and  emulated  by 
eorne  half  a  dozen  Kttle  urchins,  with  smooth  bones  fas 
tened  to  their  feet,  in  imitation  of  the  others,  skating  away 
with  a  gravity  and  perseverance  worthy  of  better  imple 
ments.  All  was  rout,  laughter,  revelry  and  happiness; 
and  that  day  the  icy  mirror  of  the  noble  Delaware  reflect* 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSS.  249 

etl  as  light  hearts  as  ever  beat  together  in  the  new  world. 
At  twelve  o'clock,  the  jolly  Heer,  according  to  his  imme 
morial  custom,  went  forth  from  the  edge  of  the  river,  dis 
tributing  apples,  and  other  dainties,  together  with  handsful 
of  wampum,  which,  rolling  away  on  the  ice  in  different  di 
rections,  occasioned  innumerable  contests  and  squabbles 
among  the  fry,  whose  disputes,  tumbles,  and  occasional 
buffetings  for  the  prizes,  were  inimitably  ludicrous  upon 
the  slippery  element.  Among  the  most  obstreperous  and 
mischievous  of  the  crowd  was  that  likely  fellow  Cupid, 
who  made  more  noise,  and  tripped  up  more  heels,  that  day, 
than  any  half  a  dozen  of  his  cotemporaries.  His  voice 
could  be  heard  above  all  the  rest,  especially  after  0»e  arri 
val  of  the  Heer,  before  whom  he  seemed  to  think  it  his 
duty  to  exert  himself,  while  his  unrestrained,  extravagant 
laugh,  exhibited  that  singular  hilarity  of  spirit,  which  dis 
tinguishes  the  deportment  of  the  African  slave  from  the 
invariable  gravity  of  the  free  red  man  of  the  western 
world. 

All  day,  and  until  after  the  sun  had  set,  and  the  shadows 
of  night  succeeded,  the  sports  of  the  ice  continued,  and  the 
merry  sounds  rung  far  and  near,  occasionally  interrupted 
by  those  loud  noises,  which  sometimes  shoot  across  the  ice 
like  a  rushing  earthquake,  and  are  occasioned  by  its  crack 
ing,  as  the  water  rises  or  falls. 


Conclusion  of  "  Observations  on  the  Boston  Port  Bill," 

JOSIAH  QuiNCY, 


THUS,  my  countrymen,  from  the  days  of  Gardiner  and 
Morton,  Gorges  and  Mason,  Randolph  and  Cranfield,  down 
to  the  present  day,  the  inhabitants  of  this  northern  region 
have  constantly  been  in  dangers  and  troubles,  from  foes 
open  and  secret,  abroad  and  in  their  bosom.  Our  freedom 
has  been  the  object  of  envy,  and  to  make  void  the  charter 
of  our  liberties  the  work  and  labour  of  an  undiminished 
race  of  villains.  One  cabal  having  failed  of  success,  new 
conspirators  have  risen,  and  what  the  first  could  not  make 
"  vjid,"  the  next  "  humbly  desired  to  revoke."  To  thi» 


250  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

purpose  one  falsehood  after  another  hath  been  fabricated 
and  spread  abroad  with  equal  turpitude  and  equal  effronte 
ry.  That  minute  detail,  which  would  present  actors  now 
on  the  stage,  is  the  province  of  History.  She,  inexorably 
severe  towards  the  eminently  guilty,  will  delineate  their 
characters  with  the  point  of  a  diamond  ;  and,  thus  blazon 
ed  in  the  face  of  day,  the  abhorrence  and  execrations  of 
mankind  will  consign  them  to  an  infamous  immortality. 

So  great  has  been  the  credulity  of  the  British  court  from 
the  beginning,  or  such  hath  been  the  activity  of  false 
brethren,  that  no  tale  inimical  to  the  Northern  Colonies, 
however  false  or  absurd,  but  what  hath  found  credit  with 
the  administration,  and  Operated  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
country.  Thus  it  was  told  and  believed  in  England,  that 
we  were  not  in  earnest  in  the  expedition  against  Canada 
at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  and  that  the  country  did 
every  thing  in  its  power  to  defeat  the  success  of  it,  and 
that  the  misfortune  of  that  attempt  ought  to  be  wholly  at 
tributed  to  the  Northern  Colonies :  while  nothing  could  be 
more  obvious,  than  that  New  England  had  exhausted  her 
youngest  blood,  and  all  her  treasures,  in  the  undertaking  ; 
and  that  every  motive  of  self-preservation,  happiness  and 
safety  must  have  operated  to  excite  these  provinces  to  the 
most  spirited  and  persevering  measures  against  Canada. 

The  people,  who  are  attacked  by  bad  men,  have  a  testi 
mony  of  their  merit,  as  the  constitution,  which  is  invaded 
by  powerful  men,  hath  an  evidence  of  its  value.  The 
path  of  our  duty  needs  no  minute  delineation  ;  it  lies  level 
to  the  eye.  Let  us  apply,  then,  like  men  sensible  of  its 
importance,  and  determined  on  its  fulfilment.  The  inroads 
on  our  public  liberty  call  for  reparation  ;  the  wrongs  we 
have  sustained  call  for  justice.  That  reparation  and  that 
justice  may  yet  be  obtained  by  union,  spirit  and  firmness. 
But  to  divide  and  conquer  was  the  maxim  of  the  devil  in 
the  garden  of  Eden  ;  and  to  disunite  and  enslave  hath 
been  the  principle  of  all  his  votaries  from  that  period  to  the 
present.  The  crimes  of  the  guilty  are  to  them  the  corda 
of  association,  and  dread  of  punishment  the  indissoluble 
oond  of  union.  The  combinations  of  public  robbers  ought, 
therefore,  to  ceme  it  patriots  and  heroes  :  and,  as  the  former 
plot  and  conspire  »  undermine  and  destroy  the  common- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE.  251 

wealth,  the  latter  ought  to  form  a  compact  for  opposition— 
a  band  of  vengeance. 

What  insidious  arts,  and  what  detestable  practices,  have 
been  used  to  deceive,  disunite  and  enslave  the  good  peo 
ple  of  this  continent !  The  mystic  appellations  of  loyalty 
and  allegiance,  the  venerable  names  of  government  and 
good  order,  and  the  sacred  ones  of  piety  and  public  virtue, 
have  been  alternately  prostituted  to  that  abominable  pur 
pose.  All  the  windings  and  guises,  subterfuges  and  doub 
lings,  of  which  the  human  soul  is  susceptible,  have  ceeu 
displayed  on  the  occasion.  But  secrets,  which  were  thought 
impenetrable,  are  no  longer  hid ;  characters  deeply  dis 
guised  are  openly  revealed  ;  and  the  discovery  of  gross 
impostors  hath  generally  preceded  but  a  short  time  their 
utter  extirpation. 

Be  not  again,  my  countrymen,  "  easily  captivated  with 
the  appearances  only  of  wisdom  and  piety, — professions 
of  a  regard  to  liberty,  and  of  a  strong  attachment  to  the 
public  interest."  Your  fathers  have  been  explicitly 
charged  with  this  folly  by  one  of  their  posterity.  Avoid 
this  and  all  similar  errors.  Be  cautious  against  the  de 
ception  of  appearances.  "  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know 
them,"  was  the  saying  of  one,  who  perfectly  knew  the 
numan  heart.  Judge  of  affairs  which  concern  social  hap 
piness  by  facts  :  judge  of  man  by  his  deeds.  For  it  is  very 
certain,  that  pious  zeal  for  days  and  times,  for  mint  and 
cumin,  hath  often  been  pretended  by  those  who  were  in 
fidels  at  bottom  ;  and  it  is  as  certain,  that  attachment  to  the 
dignity  of  government  and  the  king's  service,  hath  often 
flowed  from  the  mouths  of  men,  who  harboured  the  dark 
est  machinations  against  the  true  end  of  the  former,  and 
were  destitute  of  every  right  principle  of  loyalty  to  the 
latter.  Hence,  then,  care  and  circumspection  are  neces 
sary  branches  of  political  duty.  And,  as  "  it  is  much  easier 
to  restrain  liberty  from  running  into  licentiousness,  than 
power  from  swelling  into  tyranny  and  oppression,"  so  much 
more  caution  and  resistance  are  required  against  the  over 
bearing  of  rulers,  than  the  extravagance  of  the  people. 

To  give,  no  more  authority  to  any  order  of  state,  and  to 
place  no  greater  public  confidence  in  any  man,  than  is 
necessary  for  the  genert'  welfare,  may  be  considered  by 


252  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

the  people  as  an  important  point  of  policy.  But  though 
craft  and  hypocrisy  are  prevalent,  yet  piety  and  virtue  have 
a  real  existence  :  duplicity  and  political  imposture  abound, 
yet  benevolence  and  public  spirit  are  not  altogether  ban 
ished  the  world.  As  wclves  wi.l  appear  in  sheep's  cloth 
ing,  so  superlative  knaves  and  parricides  will  assume  the 
vesture  of  the  man  of  virtue  and  patriotism. 

These  things  are  permitted  by  Providence,  no  doubt,  for 
wise  and  good  reasons.  Man  was  created  for  a  rational, 
and  was  designed  for  an  active  being.  His  faculties  of  in 
telligence  and  force  were  given  him  for  use.  When  the 
wolf,  therefore,  is  found  devouring  the  flock,  no  hierarchy 
forbids  a  seizure  of  the  victim  for  sacrifice  ;  so,  also,  when 
dignified  impostors  are  caught  destroying  those  whom  their 
arts  deceive,  though  their  stations  destined  them  to  pro 
tect, — the  sabre  of  justice  flashes  righteousness  at  the 
stroke  of  execution. 

Yet  be  not  amused,  my  countrymen  !  The  extirpation 
of  bondage  and  the  re-establishment  of  freedom  are  not  of 
cisy  acquisition.  The  worst  passions  of  the  human  heart 
and  the  most  subtle  projects  of  the  human  mind,  are  leagued 
against  you  ;  and  principalities  and  powers  have  acceded  to 
the  combination.  Trials  and  conflicts  you  must,  therefore, 
endure  ;  hazards  and  jeopardies  of  life  and  fortune  will  at 
tend  the  struggle.  Such  is  the  fate  of  all  noble  exertions  for 
public  liberty  and  social  happiness.  Enter  not  the  lists  with 
out  thought  and  consideration,  lest  you  arm  with  timidity, 
and  combat  with  irresolution.  Having  engaged  in  the  con 
flict,  let  nothing  discourage  your  vigour,  or  repel  your  perse 
verance.  Remember  that  submission  to  the  yoke  of  bondage 
is  the  worst  that  can  befall  a  people,  after  the  mo.st  fierce 
and  unsuccessful  resistance.  What  can  the  misfortunes  of 
vanquishment  take  away,  which  despotism  and  rapine  would 
spare  ?  "  It  had  been  easy,"  said  the  great  lawgiver  Solon 
to  the  Athenians,  "  to  repress  the  advances  of  tyranny, 
and  prevent  its  establishment ;  but,  now  it  is  established 
and  grown  to  some  height,  it  would  be  more  glorious  to  de 
molish  it."  But  nothing  glorious  is  accomplished,  nothing 
great  is  attained,  nothing  valuable  is  secured,  without  mag 
nanimity  of  mind,  and  devotion  of  heart  to  the  seivice.  Bru 
tus-like,  therefore,  dedicate  yourselves  at  this  day  to  tha 


COMIV  ON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  253 

service  of  your  country ;  and  henceforth  live  a  life  of  lib 
erty  and  glory.  "  On  the  ides  of  March," — said  the  great 
and  good  man  to  his  friend  Cassius,  just  before  the  battle 
of  Philippi, — "  on  the  ides  of  March  I  devoted  my  life  to 
my  country,  and  since  that  time  I  have  lived  a  life  of  lib 
erty  and  glory." 

Inspired  with  public  virtue,  touched  with  the  wrongs, 
and  indignant  at  the  insults,  offered  his  country,  the  high- 
spirited  Cassius  exhibits  an  heroic  example  ; — "  Resolved 
as  we  are," — replied  the  hero  to  his  friend, — "  resolved  as 
we  are,  let  us  march  against  the  enemy ;  for,  though  we 
should  not  conquer,  we  have  nothing  to  fear." 

Spirits  and  genii  like  these  rose  in  Rome,  and  have  since 
adorned  Britain ;  such  also  will  one  day  make  glorious  this 
more  western  world.  America  hath  in  store  her  Bruti  and 
Cassii — her  Hampdens  and  Sydneys — patriots  and  heroes, 
who  will  form  a  band  of  brothers ; — men,  who  will  have 
memories  and  feelings,  courage  and  swords, — courage,  that 
shall  inflame  their  ardent  bosoms  till  their  hands  cleave 
to  their  swords,  and  their  swords  to  their  enemies'  hearts. 


Necessity  of  Union  between  the  States. — JA\. 

IT  has  often  given  me  pleasure  to  observe  that  indepen 
dent  America  was  not  composed  of  detached  and  distant 
territories,  but  that  one  connected,  fertile,  wide-spreading 
country  was  the  portion  of  our  western  sons  of  liberty. 
Providence  has,  in  a  particular  manner,  blessed  it  with  a 
variety  of  soils  and  productions,  and  watered  it  with  innu 
merable  streams  for  the  delight  and  accommodation  of  its 
inhabitants.  A  succession  of  navigable  waters  forms  a 
kind  of  chain  round  its  borders,  as  if  to  bind  it  together ; 
while  the  most  noble  rivers  in  the  world,  running  at  con 
venient  distances,  present  them  with  highways  for  the  easy 
communication  of  friendly  aids,  and  the  mutual  transporta 
tion  and  exchange  of  their  various  commodities. 

With  equal  pleasure  I  have  as  often  taken  notice,  that 
Providence  has  been  pleased  to  give  this  one  connected 
country  to  one  united  people  ;  a  people  descended  from  the 
22 


254  COMMON-PLACK    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

same  ancestors,  speaking  the  same  language,  professing  the 
same  religion,  attached  to  the  same  principles  of  govern 
ment,  very  similar  in  their  manners  and  customs  ;  and  who, 
by  their  joint  counsels,  arms  and  efforts,  fighting  side  by 
side,  through  a  long  and  bloody  war,  have  nobly  establish 
ed  their  general  liberty  and  independence. 

This  country  and  this  people  seem  to  have  been  made 
for  each  other ;  and  it  appears  as  if  it  were  the  design  of 
Providence,  that  an  inheritance  so  proper  and  convenient 
for  a  band  of  brethren  united  to  each  other  by  the  strong 
est  ties,  should  never  be  split  into  a  number  of  unsocial, 
'jealous  and  alien  sovereignties. 

Similar  sentiments  have  hitherto  prevailed  among  all 
orders  and  denominations  of  men  among  us.  To  all  gen 
eral  purposes  we  have  uniformly  been  one  people — each 
individual  citizen  every  where  enjoying  the  same  national 
rights,  privileges  and  protection.  As  a  nation  we  have 
made  peace. and  war;  as  a  nation  we  have  vanquished  our 
common  enemies ;  as  a  nation  we  have  formed  alliances, 
and  made  treaties,  and  entered  into  various  compacts  and 
conventions  with  foreign  states. 

A  strong  sense  of  the  value  and  blessings  of  union  in 
duced  the  people,  at  a  very  early  period,  to  institute  a  fed 
eral  government  in  order  to  preserve  and  perpetuate  it. 
They  formed  it  almost  as  soon  as  they  had  a  political  exist 
ence  ;  nay,  at  a  time  when  their  habitations  were  in 
flames,  when  many  of  them  were  bleeding  in  the  field, 
and  when  the  progress  of  hostility  and  desolation  left  little 
room  for  those  calm  and  mature  inquiries  and  reflections, 
which  must  ever  precede  the  formation  of  a  wise  and  well- 
balanced  government  for  a  free  people.  It  is  not  to  be 
wondered,  that  a  government  instituted  in  times  so  inauspi 
cious  should,  on  experiment,  be  found  greatly  deficient, 
and  inadequate  to  the  purpose  it  was  intended  to  answer. 

This  intelligent  people  perceived  and  regretted  these  de 
fects.  Still  continuing  no  less  attached  to  union  than  ena 
moured  of  liberty,  they  observed  the  danger,  which  im 
mediately  threatened  the  former,  and  more  remotely  the 
latter ,  and,  being  persuaded  that  ample  security  for  both 
could  only  be  found  in  a  national  government  more  wisely 
framed,  they,  as  '  Uh  one  voice,  convened  the  late  conven- 


COMMON-PLACE  B  DOR  OF  PROSE.  255 

lion  at  Philadelphia,  to  take  that  important  subject  under 
consideration. 

This  convention,  composed  of  men  who  possessed  the 
confidence  of  the  people,  and  many  of  whom  had  become 
highly  distinguished  for  their  patriotism,  virtue  and  wis 
dom,  in  times  which  tried  the  souls  of  men,  undertook  the 
arduous  task.  In  the  mild  season  of  peace,  with  minds 
unoccupied  by  other  subjects,  they  passed  many  months  in 
cool,  uninterrupted  and  daily  consultations.  And  finally, 
without  having  been  awed  by  power,  or  influenced  by  any 
passion  except  love  for  their  country,  they  presented  and 
recommended  to  the  people  the  plan  produced  by  their 
joint  and  very  unanimous  counsels. 

It  is  not  yet  forgotten,  that  well-grounded  apprehensions 
of  imminent  danger  induced  the  people  of  America  to  form 
the  memorable  congress  of  1774.  That  body  recommend 
ed  certain  measures  to  their  constituents,  and  the  event 
proved  their  wisdom  ;  it  yet  is  fresh  in  our  memories  how 
soon  the  press  began  to  teem  with  pamphlets  and  weekly 
papers  against  those  very  measures.  Not  only  many  of 
the  officers  of  government,  who  obeyed  the  dictates  of  per 
sonal  interest,  but  others,  from  a  mistaken  estimate  of  con 
sequences,  from  the  undue  influence  of  ancient  attach 
ments,  or  whose  ambition  aimed  at  objects  which  did  not 
correspond  with  the  public  good,  were  indefatigable  in  their 
endeavours  to  persuade  the  people  to  reject  the  advice  of 
that  patriotic  congress.  Many,  indeed,  were  deceived 
and  deluded,  but  the  great  majority  reasoned  and  decid 
ed  judiciously  ;  and  happy  they  are  in  reflecting  that  they 
did  so. 

But  if  the  people  at  large  had  reason  to  confide  in  the 
men  of  that  congress,  few  of  whom  had  then  beeG  fully 
tried  or  generally  known,  still  greater  reason  have  they 
now  to  respect  the  judgment  and  advice  of  the  convention  ; 
for  it  is  well  known  that  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
members  of  that  congress,  who  have  been  since  tried  and 
,'ustly  approved. for  patriotism  and  abilities,  and  who  have 
grown  old  in  acquiring  political  information,  were  also  mem 
bers  of  this  convention,  and  carried  into  it  their  accumulat 
ed  knowledge  and  experience. 


256  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OP  PROSE. 

"It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  not  only  the  first,  but  every 
succeeding  congress,  as  well  as  the  late  convention,  have 
joined  with  the  people  in  thinking  that  the  prosperity  of 
America  depended  on  its  union.  To  preserve  and  perpetuate 
it  was  the  great  object  of  the  people  in  forming  that  con 
vention  ;  and  it  is  also  the  great  object  of  the  plan,  which 
the  convention  has  advised  them  to  accept.  With  what 
propriety  therefore,  or  for  what  good  purposes,  are  attempts 
at  this  particular  period  made  by  some  men  to  depreciate 
the  importance  of  the  union  .' — or  why  is  it  suggested,  that 
three  or  four  confederacies  would  be  better  than  one  ?  I 
am  persuaded  in  my  own  mind,  ihat  the  people  have  always 
thought  right  on  this  subject,  and  that  their  universal  and 
uniform  attachment  to  the  cause  of  the  union  rests  on  great 
and  weighty  reasons. 

They  who  promote  the  idea  of  substituting  a  number  of 
distinct  confederacies  in  the  room  of  the  plan  of  the  conven 
tion,  seem  clearly  to  foresee,  that  the  rejection  of  it  would  put 
the  continuance  of  the  union  in  the  utmost  jeopardy.  That 
certainly  would  be  the  case  ;  and  I  sincerely  wish  it  may 
be  as  clearly  foreseen  by  every  good  citizen,  that,  whenever 
the  dissolution  of  the  union  arrives,  America  will  have 
reason  to  exclaim,  in  the  words  of  the  poet, — ec  Farewell, 
a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness !" 


Character  of  Hamilton. — AMES. 

MKN  of  the  most  elevated  minds  have  not  always  the 
readiest  discernment  of  character.  Perhaps  he  was  some 
times  too  sudden  and  too  lavish  in  bestowing  his  confidence  : 
his  manly  spirit,  disdaining  artifice,  suspected  none.  But, 
while  the  power  of  his  friends  over  him  seemed  to  have 
no  limits,  and  really  had  none,  in  respect  to  those  things 
which  were  of  a  nature  to  be  yielded,  no  man,  not  the  Ro 
man  Cato  himself,  was  more  inflexible  on  every  point  that 
touched,  or  only  seemed  to  touch,  his  integrity  and  honour. 
With  him  it  was  not  enough  to  be  unsuspected ;  his  bosom 
would  have  glowed  like  a  furnace  at  its  own  whispers  of 
•eproach.  Mere  purity  would  hava  seemed  to  him  below 


r 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  257 

praise  ;  and  such  were  his  habits,  and  such  his  nature,  that 
the  pecuniary  temptations,  which  many  others  can  only 
with  great  exertion  and  self-denial  resist,  had  no  attrac 
tions  for  him.  He  was  very  far  from  obstinate  ;  yet  as  his 
friends  assailed  his  opinions  with  less  profound  thought  than 
he  had  "devoted  to  them,  they  were  seldom  shaken  by  dis 
cussion.  He  defended  them,  however,  with  as  much  mild 
ness  as  force,  and  evinced  that,  if  he  did  not  yield,  it  was 
not  for  want  of  gentleness  or  modesty. 

His  early  life  we  pass  over ;  though  his  heroic  spirit  in 
Ihe  army  has  furnished  a  theme  that  is  dear  to  patriotism, 
and  will  be  sacred  to  glory. 

In  all  the  different  stations,  in  which  a  life  of  active  use 
fulness  has  placed  him,  we  find  him  not  more  remarkably 
t  istinguished  by  the  extent,  than  by  the  variety  and  versa 
tility,  of  his  talents.  In  every  place,  he  made  it  apparent, 
that  no  other  man  could  have  filled  it  so  well ;  and  in  times 
of  critical  importance,  in  which  alone  he  desired  employ 
ment,  his  services  were  justly  deemed  absolutely  indispen 
sable.  As  secretary  of  the  treasury,  his  was  the  powerful 
spirit  that  presided  over  the  chaos. 

"  Confusion  heard  his  voice,  and  wild  Uproar 
Stood  ruled." 

Indeed,  in  organizing  the  federal  government  in  1789, 
every  man,  of  either  sense  or  candour,  will  allow,  the  diffi 
culties  seemed  greater  than  the  first-rate  abilities  could  sur 
mount.  The  event  has  shown  that  his  abilities  were  great 
er  than  those  difficulties.  He  surmounted  them ;  and 
Washington's  administration  was  the  most  wise  and  benef 
icent,  the  most  prosperous,  and  ought  to  be  the  most  pop 
ular,  that  ever  was  intrusted  with  the  affairs  of  a  nation. 
Great  as  was  Washington's  merit,  much  of  it  in  plan, 
much  in  execution,  will  of  course  devolve  upon  his  min 
ister. 

As  a  lawyer,  his  comprehensive  genius  reached  the 
principles  of  his  profession :  he  compassed  its  extent,  he 
fathomed  its  profound,  perhaps,  even  more  familiarly  and 
easily  than  the  rules  of  its  practice.  With  most  men  law 
is  a  trade  ;  with  him  it  was  a  science. 
22" 


258  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

As  a  statesman,  he  was  not  more  distinguished  for  the 
great  exter*  of  his  views,  than  by  the  caution  with  which 
he  provider  against  impediments,  and  the  watchfulness  of 
his  care  over  the  right  and  liberty  of  the  subject.  In  none 
of  the  many  revenue  bills  which  he  framed,  though  com 
mittees  reported  them,  is  there  to  be  found  a  single  clause 
that  savours  of  despotic  power  ;  not  one  that  the  sagest 
champions  of  law  and  liberty  would,  on  that  ground,  hesi 
tate  to  approve  and  adopt. 

It  is  rare  that  a  man,  who  owes  so  much  to  nature,  de 
scends  to  seek  more  from  industry ;  but  he  seemed  to  de 
pend  on  industry  as  if  nature  had  done  nothing  for  him. 
His  habits  of  investigation  were  very  remarkable ;  his 
mind  seemed  to  cling  to  his  subject  till  he  had  exhausted 
it.  Hence  the  uncommon  superiority  of  his  reasoning 
powers — a  superiority  that  seemed  to  be  augmented  from 
every  source,  and  to  be  fortified  by  every  auxiliary — learn 
ing,  taste,  wit,  imagination  and  eloquence.  These  were 
embellished  and  enforced  by  his  temper  and  manners,  by 
his  fame  and  his  virtues.  It  is  difficult,  in  the  midst  of 
such  various  excellence,  to  say  in  what  particular  the  ef 
fect  of  his  greatness  was  most  manifest.  No  man  more 
promptly  discerned  truth  ;  no  man  more  clearly  displayed 
it :  it  was  not  merely  made  visible, — it  seemed  to  come 
bright  with  illumination  from  his  lips.  But,  prompt  and 
clear  as  he  was, — fervid  as  Demosthenes,  like  Cicero  full 
of  resource, — he  was  not  less  remarkable  for  the  copious 
ness  and  completeness  of  his  argument,  that  left  little  for 
cavil,  and  nothing  for  doubt.  Some  men  take  their  strong 
est  argument  as  a  weapon,  and  use  no  other ;  but  he  left 
nothing  to  be  inquired  for — nothing  to  be  answered.  He 
not  only  disarmed  his  adversaries  of  their  pretexts  and  ob 
jections,  but  he  stripped  them  of  all  excuse  for  having 
urged  them  ;  he  confounded  and  subdued  as  well  as  con 
vinced.  He  indemnified  them,  however,  by  making  his 
discussion  a  complete  map  of  his  subject ;  so  that  his 
opponents  might,  indeed,  feel  ashamed  of  their  mistakes, 
but  they  could  not  repeat  them.  In  fact  it  was  no  com 
mon  effort  that  could  preserve  a  really  able  antagonist  from 
becoming  his  convert ;  for  the  truth,  which  his  researches 
«o  distinctly  presented  to  the  understanding  of  others,  was 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  259 

rendered  almost  irresistibly  commanding  and  impressive  by 
the  love  arid  reverence,  which,  it  was  ever  apparent,  ha 
profoundly  cherished  for  it  in  his  own.  While  patriotism 
glowed  in  his  heart,  wisdom  blended  in  his  speech  her 
authority  with  her  charms. 

Unparalleled  as  were  his  services,  they  were  neverthe 
less  no  otherwise  requited  than  by  the  applause  of  all  good 
men,  and  by  his  own  enjoyment  of  the  spectacle  of  that 
national  prosperity  and  honour,  which  was  the  effect  of 
them.  After  facing  calumny,  and  triumphantly  surmount 
ing  an  unrelenting  persecution,  he  retired  from  office  with 
clean  though  empty  hands,  as  rich  as  reputation  and  an 
unblemished  integrity  could  make  him. 

The  most  substantial  glory  of  a  country  is  in  its  virtu 
ous  great  men  :  its  prosperity  will  depend  on  its  docility  to 
learn  from  their  example.  That  nation  is  fated  to  ignominy 
and  servitude,  for  which  such  men  have  lived  in  vain. 
Power  may  be  seized  by  a  nation  that  is  yet  barbarous ; 
and  wealth  may  be  enjoyed  by  one  that  it  finds  or  renders 
sordid  :  the  one  is  the  gift  and  the  sport  of  accident,  and 
the  other  is  the  sport  of  power.  Both  are  mutable,  and 
have  passed  away  without  leaving  behind  them  any  other 
memorial  than  ruins  that  offend  taste,  and  traditions  that 
baffle  conjecture.  But  the  glory  of  Greece  is  imperisha 
ble,  or  will  last  as  long  as  learning  itself,  which  is  its  mon 
ument  :  it  strikes  an  everlasting  root,  and  bears  perennial 
blossoms  on  its  grave.  The  name  of  Hamilton  would  have 
honoured  Greece  in  the  age  of  Aristides.  May  Heaven, 
the  guardian  of  our  liberty,  grant  that  our  country  may  be 
fruitful  of  Hamiltons,  and  faithful  to  their  glory ! 


Morality  of  Poetty. — GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

IF  poetry  is  the  spirit  of  God  within  us,  that  spirit  must 
l;e  a  pure  one ;  if  it  is  the  strongest  and  most  earnest  ex 
pression  of  generous  enthusiasm,  it  must  be  allied  with  the 
noblest  feelings  of  human  nature.  Genius  can,  it  is  true, 
of  itself,  attract  attention  ;  but  it  cannot  win  continued  and 
universal  admiration,  except  in  alliance  with  virtue.  Who 


fi60  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE 

can  measure  the  loss,  which  the  world  would  sustain,  if 
the  sublimest  work  of  Milton  were  to  be  struck  from  the 
number  of  living  books  ?  Yet  the  world  would  be  the 
gainer,  if  Don  Juan  were  as  if  it  had  never  been  written. 
The  one  poet  cherishes  loftiness  of  purpose,  and  tends  to 
elevate  his  reader  to  a  kindred  magnanimity ;  while  the 
other  exposes,  it  may  be  with  inimitable  skill  and  graphic 
power,  the  vices  and  weaknesses  of  man,  and  so  tends  t" 
degrade  the  mind  to  the  level  which  he  establishes  for  the 
race.  But  we  go  to  poetry  as  a  relief  and  a  support.  We 
need  no  books  to  ring  changes  to  us  on  man's  selfishness  ; 
and  if  at  times,  in  a  moment  of  despondency  or  disappoint 
ment,  when  the  confused  judgment  cannot  rightly  estimate 
the  progress  of  good  amidst  the  jar  of  human  passions,  and 
the  collision  of  human  interests,  we  forget  the  dignity  of 
our  nature,  and  revile  it,  the  poet  should  reinstate  it  in  our 
favour,  and  make  us  forget  our  disgust  with  the  world. 

While  on  this  subject,  we  cannot  forbear  to  remark  on 
that  tendency  to  moralize,  which  many  mistake  in  them 
selves  for  wise  observation.  True,  to  the  eye  of  a  con 
templative  man,  books  may  be  found  in  the  running  brooks, 
and  sermons  in  stones ;  but  it  is  the  mark  of  an  inferior 
mind  to  be  constantly  repeating  the  common-places  of  mo 
rality  :  one,  who  does  it  often,  is  sure  to  be  esteemed  by 
his  neighbours  as  a  tedious  proser ;  and  to  have  this  strain 
of  puny  thinking  put  into  verse,  and  set  before  us  as  sub 
lime,  is  really  intolerable.  In  that  which  is  to  produce  a 
grand  effect,  every  thing  must  be  proportionally  grand. 
The  historians  of  nature  tell  us,  that  gold  is  diffused 
throughout  creation,  may  be  extracted  from  the  stones  we 
tread  upon,  and  enters  into  the  composition  of  the  plants  011 
which  we  feed.  But  it  is  a  very  slow  and  troublesome 
process  to  extract  it  from  most  stones  and  plants  ;  and,  after 
all,  it  is  obtained  in  so  small  quantities,  that  it  is  not  worth 
the  trouble  it  costs.  And  it  may  be  so  with  the  elements 
of  poetry.  They  exist  every  where  ;  the  dreams  of  the 
drunkard  may  sometimes  have  a  gleam  of  bright  fancy ;  a 
mother,  setting  out  in  pursuit  of  an  idiot  boy,  who  has  run 
away  on  an  ass,  may  have  vjry  proper  thoughts,  and  weep 
as  sincerely  as  Andromache  herself;  and  the  reformation 
•»f  a  knave  like  Peter  Bell  may  be  psychologically  as  re- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  261 

markable  as  the  downfall  of  Macbeth,  the  scepticism  of 
Hamlet,  the  madness  of  Lear.  But  still  it  is  not  the  thing 
we  want.  To  the  observer  of  the  human  mind,  the  mere 
collector  of  facts,  one  man's  experience  may  offer  nearly 
as  much  as  another's;  but. cannot,  in  the  same  degree, 
promote  the  purposes  of  the  poet.  At  a  balWn  any  village 
in  the  country,  there  are  probably  the  self-same  passions 
at  work,  as  were  ever  called  into  action  on  similar  occa 
sions.  The  beauty  and  pride  of  a  country  town,  dancing 
to  an  imperfect  band,  may  afford  illustrations  of  all  the 
moral  phenomena  of  vanity,  admiration  and  love,  the 
hours  whirled  away  very  agreeably  in  lively  dances,  and 
blushes  excited  by  the  praise  of  loveliness.  But  all  this 
is  a  common,  every  day  sort  of  business ;  and  hardly  any 
one  would  think  of  weaving  it  into  poetry.  But  when  the 
imagination  is  wrought  up  by  the  expectation  of  an  ap 
proaching  battle  ;  when  the  capital  of  Belgium  has  gather 
ed  its  own  beauty  and  the  chivalry  of  England  ;  when  the 
blow,  that  is  to  decide  the  destiny  of  empires,  is  suspended 
for  a  season,  while  youth  and  pleasure  revel  in  careless 
gayety,  till  they  are  recalled  from  the  charm  that  creeps 
over  the  senses  by  a  peal,  which  is  the  death-larum  of 
thousands, — we  find  the  scenes  of  the  ball  room  contribut 
ing  to  heighten  the  power  and  the  spleqdour  of  poetry. 
If  we  hear  of  a  blind  boy,  who  goes  to  sea  in  a  shell,  we 
should  think  the  story  would  make  a  very  curious  and 
proper  paragraph  for  the  miscellaneous  department  of  a 
newspaper,  provided  the  fact  be  well  authenticated ;  but 
what  is  there  of  poetry  about  it  ?*  If  we  were  to  meet  a 
little  girl,  who  had  lost  her  pet  lamb,  it  would  be  proper 
to  be  extremely  sorry  ;  and  the  matter  is  a  fit  one  for  pro 
portionate  sympathy.  But  these  are  trivial  things ;  they 
hardly  claim  much  attention  in  life  ;  they  are  of  no  gen 
eral  interest  for  the  exercise  of  the  imagination.  The 
poet  must  exalt  and  satisfy  the  mind ;  must  fill  us  with 
glorious  aspirations  and  lofty  thoughts ;  must  lead  us  out 


*  Trifling  as  this  incident  might  appear,  if  related  in  the  com 
mon  and  desultory  manner  of  a  newspaper  paragraph,  it  has  yet 
been  wrought,  by  the  genius  of  Wordsworth,  into  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  natural  p;eces  of  poetry  which  it  has  been  our  lot  to  met* 
with.-  ED. 


262  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

through  the  high  heaven  of  invention,  and  call  up  before 
us  the  master  passions  of  man's  mind  in  all  their  majesty  ; — 
not  show  us  the  inside  of  a  baby-house,  nor  furnish  us  with 
a  comment  on  the  catalogue  of  a  toy-shop. 


The  Consequences  of  Jltheism. — 

FEW  men  suspect,  perhaps  no  man  comprehends,  the 
extent  of  the  support  given  by  religion  to  every  virtue. 
No  man,  perhaps,  is  aware  how  much  our  moral  and  social 
sentiments  are  fed  from  this  fountain ;  how  powerless  con 
science  would  become  without  the  belief  of  a  God  ;  how 
palsied  would  be  human  benevolence,  were  there  not  the 
sense  of  a/higher  benevolence  to  quicken  and  sustain  it ; 
now  suddenly  the  whole  social  fabric  would  quake,  and 
with  what  a  fearful  crash  it  would  sink  into  hopeless  ruins, 
were  the  ideas  of  a  Supreme  Being,  of  accountableness, 
and  of  a  future  life,  to  be  utterly  erased  from  every  mind. 
Once  let  men  thoroughly  believe,  that  they  are  the  work 
and  sport  of  chance ;  that  no  Superior  Intelligence  con 
cerns  itself  with  human  affairs  ;  that  all  their  improve 
ments  perish  forever  at  death  ;  that  the  weak  have  no 
guardian,  and  the  injured  no  avenger  ;  that  thore  is  no 
recompense  for  sacrifices  to  uprightness  and  the  public 
good  ;  that  an  oath  is  unheard  in  heaven ;  that  secret 
crimes  have  no  witness  but  the  perpetrator.;  that  human 
existence  has  no  purpose,  and  human  virtue  no  unfailing 
friend  ;  that  this  brief  life  is  every  thing  to  us,  and  '  death 
is  total,  everlasting  extinction, — once  let  men  thoroughly 
abandon  religion,  and  who  can  conceive  or  describe  the 
extent  of  the  desolation  which  would  follow  ? 

We  hope,  perhaps,  that  human  laws  and  natural  sym 
pathy  would  hold  society  together.  As  reasonably  might 
we  believe,  that,  were  the  sun  quenched  in  the  heavens, 
our  torches  could  illuminate,  rind  *ur  fires  quicken  and 
fertilize  the  creation.  What  is  there  in  human  nature  to 
awaken  respect  and  tenderness,  if  man  is  the  unprotected 
Insect  of  a  day  ?  and  what  is  he  more,  if  atheism  be  true  ? 
Erase  all  thought  and  fear  of  God  from  a  community,  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  263 

»elfishness  and  sensuality  would  absorb  the  whole  man. 
Appetite,  knowing  no  restraint,  and  poverty  and  suffer- 
mg,  having  no  solace  or  hope,  would  trample  in  scorn  on 
the  restraints  of  human  laws.  Virtue,  duty,  principle, 
would  be  mocked  and  spurned  as  unmeaning  sounds.  A 
sordid  self-interest  would  supplant  every  other  feeling,  and 
man  would  become  in  fact,  what  the  theory  of  atheism 
declares  him  to  be,  a  companion  for  brutes  ! 


The  blind  Preacher. — WIRT. 

IT  was  one  Sunday,  as  I  travelled  through  the  county 
of  Orange,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  cluster  of  horses 
tied  near  a  ruinous,  old,  wooden  house  in  the  forest,  not  far 
from  the  road-side.  Having  frequently  seen  such  objects 
before,  in  travelling  through  these  States,  I  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  understanding  that  this  was  a  place  of  religious 
worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in  the 
duties  of  the  congregation  ;  but  I  must  confess,  that  curi 
osity  to  hear  the  preacher  of  such  a  wilderness,  was  not 
the  least  of  my  motives.  On  entering,  I  was  struck  with 
his  preternatural  appearance.  He  was  a  tall  and  very 
spare  old  man  ;  his  head,  which  was  covered  with  a  white 
linen  cap,  his  shrivelled  hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all 
shaking  under  the  influence  of  a  palsy  ;  and  a  few  moments 
ascertained  to  me  that  he  was  perfectly  blind. 

The  first  emotions  that  touched  my  breast  were  those  of 
mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But  how  soon  were  all  my 
feelings  changed !  The  lips  of  Plato  were  never  more 
worthy  of  a  prognostic  swarm  of  bees,  than  were  the  lips 
of  this  holy  man  !  It  was  a  day  of  the  administration  of 
the  sacrament ;  and  his  subject  was,  of  course,  the  passion 
of  our  Saviour.  I  had  heard  the  subject  handled  a  thou 
sand  times  :  I  had  thought  it  exhausted  long  ago.  Little 
did  1  suppose  that  in  the  wild  woods  of  America,  I  was  to 
meet  with  a  man,  whose  eloquence  would  give  to  this 
topic  a  new  and  more  sublime  pathos,  than  I  had  ever  be* 
fore  witnessed.  • 


264  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit  to  distribute  the  mystic 
symbols,  there  was  a  peculiar,  a  more  than  human  solem 
nity  in  his  air  and  manner,  which  made  my  blood  run  cold, 
and  my  whole  frame  shiver. 

He  then  drew  a  picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour ; 
his  trial  before  Pilate ;  his  ascent  up  Calvary ;  his  cruci 
fixion  ;  and  his  death.  I  knew  the  whole  history ;  but 
never  until  then  had  I  heard  the  circumstances  so  select 
ed,  so  arranged,  so  coloured  !  It  was  all  new  ;  and  I  seem 
ed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  His  enun 
ciation  was  so  deliberate,  that  his  voice  trembled  on  every 
syllable  ;  and  every  heart  in  the  assembly  trembled  in 
unison.  His  peculiar  phrases  had  that  force  of  descrip 
tion,  that  the  original  scene  appeared  to  be  at  that  moment 
acting  before  our  eyes.  We  saw  the  very  faces  of  the 
Jews ;  the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice  and  rage 
We  saw  the  buffet :  my  soul  kindled  with  a  flame  of  in 
dignation  ;  and  -my  hands  were  involuntarily  and  convul 
sively  clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  forgiv 
ing  meekness  of  our  Saviour ;  when  he  drew,  to  the  life, 
his  blessed  eyes  streaming  in  tears  to  heaven  ;  his  voice 
breathing  to  God  a  soft  and  gentle  prayer  of  pardon  on  his 
enemies,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do," — the  voice  of  the  .preacher,  which  had  all  along 
faltered,  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until,  his  utterance  being 
entirely  obstructed  by  the  force  of  his  feelings,  he  raised 
his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  burst  into  a  loud  and  ir 
repressible  flood  of  grief.  The  effect  is  inconceivable 
The  whole  house  resounded  with  the  mingled  groans,  and 
sobs,  and  shrieks  of  the  congregation. 

It  was  sometime  before  the  tumult  had  subsided,  so  far 
as  to  permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging  by  the  usu 
al,  but  fallacious  standard  of  my  own  weakness,  I  began 
to  be  very  uneasy  for  the  situation  of  the  preacher.  For 
I  could  not  conceive  how  he  would  be  able  to  let  his  audi 
ence  down  from  the  height  to  which  he  had  wound  them, 
without  impairing  the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  subject, 
or  perhaps  shocking  them  b"y  the  abruptness  of  the  fall 
But — no  :  the  descent  was  as  beautiful  and  sublime  as  the 
elevation  had  been  rapid  and  enthusiastic. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  965 

The  first  sentence,  with  which  he  broke  the  awful  si 
lence,  was  a  quotation  from  Rousseau  :  "  Socrates  died  like 
a  philosopher,  but  Jesus  Christ,  like  a  God  !" 

I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  produced 
by  this  short  sentence,  unless  you  could  perfectly  conceive 
the  whole  manner  of  the  man,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis 
in  the  discourse.  Never  before  did  I  completely  under 
stand  what  Demosthenes  meant  by  laying  such  stress  on 
delivery.  You  are  to  bring  before  you  the  venerable  fig 
ure  of  the  preacher ;  his  blindness,  constantly  recalling  to 
your  recollection  old  Homer,  Ossian,  and  Milton,  and  asso 
ciating  with  his  performance  the  melancholy  grandeur 
of  their  geniuses ;  you  are  to  imagine  that  you  hear  his 
slow,  solemn,  well-accented  enunciation,  and  his  voice 
of  affecting,  trembling  melody ;  you  are  to  remember  the 
pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm,  to  which  the  congregation 
were  raised  ;  and  then  the  few  moments  of  portentous, 
deathlike  silence,  which  reigned  throughout  the  house  : 
the  preacher,  removing  his  white  handkerchief  from  his 
aged  face,  (even  yet  wet  from  the  recent  torrent  of  his 
tears,)  and  slowly  stretching  forth  the  palsied  hand  which 
holds  it,  begins  the  sentence,  "  Socrates  died  like  a  phi 
losopher" — then,  pausing,  raising  his  other  hand,  pressing 
them  Loth,  clasped  together,  with  warmth  and  energy,  to 
his  breast,  lifting  his  "  sightless  balls"  to  heaven,  and 
pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous  voice — "  but  Je 
sus  Christ — like  a  God  !"  If  he  had  been  indeed  and  in 
truth  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could  scarcely  have  been 
more  divine.  Whatever  I  had  been  able  to  conceive  of 
the  sublimity  of  Massillon  or  the  force  of  Bourdaloue,  had 
fallen  far  short  of  the  power  which  I  felt  from  the  delivery 
of  this  simple  sentence. 

If  this  description  give  you  the  impression,  that  this  in 
comparable  minister  had  any  thing  of  shallow,  'heatrical 
•  rick  in  his  manner,  it  does  him  great  injustice.  I  have 
never  seen,  in  any  other  orator,  such  a  union  of  simplicity 
and  majesty.  He  has  not  a  gesture,  an  attitude,  or  an  ac 
cent,  to  which  he  does  not  seem  forced  by  the  sentiment 
he  is  expressing.  His  mind  is  too  serious,  too  earnest,  too 
solicitous,  and,  at  the  same  time,  too  dignified,  to  stoop  to 
artifice.  Although  as  far  removed  from  ostentation  as  a 
23 


266  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

man  can  be,  yet  it  is  clear,  from  the  train,  the  style  and 
substance  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  is  not  only  a  very  polite 
scholar,  but  a  man  of  extensive  and  profound  erudition.  I 
was  forcibly  struck  with  a  short  yet  beautiful  character, 
which  he  drew  of  your  learned  and  amiable  countryman, 
Sir  Robert  Boyle  :  he  spoke  of  him,  as  if  "  his  noble  mind 
had,  even  before  death,  divested  herself  of  all  influence 
from  his  frail  tabernacle  of  flesh  ;"  and  called  him,  in  hia 
peculiarly  emphatic  and  impressive  manner,  "  a  pure  in 
telligence  :  the  link  between  men  and  angels." 

This  man  has  been  before  my  imagination  almost  ever 
since.  A  thousand  times,  as  I  rode  along,  I  dropped  the 
reins  of  my  bridle,  stretched  forth  my  hand,  and  tried  to 
imitate  his  quotation  from  Rousseau  ;  a  thousand  times  I 
abandoned  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  felt  persuaded,  that 
his  peculiar  manner  and  power  arose  from  an  energy  of 
soul,  which  nature  could  give,  but  which  no  human  being 
could  justly  copy.  As  I  recall,  at  this  moment,  several  of 
his  awfully  striking  attitudes,  the  chilling  tide,  with  which 
my  blood  begins  to  pour  along  my  arteri&s,  reminds  me  of 
the  emotions  produced  by  the  first  sight  of  Gray's  intro 
ductory  picture  of  his  Bard. 


The  humble  Man  and  the  proud. — THACHEH. 

COMPARE,  then,  the  proud  man  with  the  man  of  hu 
mility,  and  tell  me  which  is  the  more  dignified  being. 
Pride,  like  humility,  supposes  an  act  of  comparison.  But 
the  comparison  of  the  proud  man  is  not  between  himself 
and  the  standard  of  his  duty  ;  between  what  he  is  and  what 
he  ought  to  be  ;  but  between  himself  and  his  fellow-men. 
He  looks  around  him,  forgets  his  own  defects  and  weak- 
i>p«ses,  infirmities  and  sins,  and  because  he  finds,  or  im 
agines  he  finds,  in  some  respects,  a  little  superiority  to  his 
fellow-men — at  the  greatest  it  can  be  but  a  little — because 
he,  one  worm  of  the  dust,  believes  himself  to  be  somewhat 
more  rich,  more  learned,  more  successful  than  another,  he 
thinks  this  to  be  a  sufficient  ground  for  swelling  with  self- 
complacency,  and  regarding  those  around  him  with  disdaii 


CO3IMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  267 

and  contempt.  The  humble  man,  on  the  contrary,  is  sc 
full  of  the  thought  of  the  exceeding  breadth  of  the  com 
mandments  of  God,  and  of  that  supreme  excellence,  to 
which  his  religion  teaches  him  to  aspire  ;  and  he  so  con 
stantly  recollects  the  imperfection  of  his  approaches  to  it, 
that  every  idea  of  a  vain-glorious  comparison  of  himself 
with  his  neighbour  dies  away  within  him.  He  can  only 
remember  that  God  is  every  thing,  and  that  in  his  august 
presence  all  distinctions  are  lost,  and  all  human  beings  re 
duced  to  the  same  level.  Say,  then,  my  friends;  is  it  not 
pride,  that  is  so  mean,  so  poor-spirited  and  low  ?  is  it  not 
pride,  that  is  a  mark  of  a  little,  and  narrow,  and  feeble 
mind  ?  and  is  not  humility  alone  the  truly  noble,  the  truly 
generous  and  sublime  quality  ? 

There  is  this  further  proof  of  the  superior  elevation  of 
the  humble  man.  The  man  of  pride,  with  all  his  affected 
contempt  of  the  world,  must  evidently  estimate  it  very 
highly  ;  else,  whence  so  much  complacency  at  the  idea  of 
surpassing  others  ?  Whence  that  restless  desire  of  dis 
tinction,  that  passion  for  theatrical  display,  which  inflames 
his  heart,  and  occupies  his  whole  attention  ?  Why  is  it 
that  his  strongest  motive  to  good  actions  is  their  notoriety, 
and  that  he  considers  every  worthy  deed  as  lost,  when  it 
is  not  publicly  displayed  ?  It  is  only  because  the  world 
and  the  world's  applause  are  every  thing  to  him  ;  and  that 
he  cannot  live  but  on  the  breath  of  popular  favour,  But 
the  humble  man,  with  all  his  real  lowliness,  has  yet  risen 
above  the  world.  He  looks  for  that  honour,  which  cometh 
down  from  on  high,  and  the  whispers  of  worldly  praise 
die  away  upon  his  ear.  When  his  thoughts  return  from 
tne  contemplation  of  the  infinite  excellence  of  God,  and 
the  future  glories  of  virtue,  the  objects  of  this  life  appear 
reduced  in  their  importance ;  in  the  same  way  as  the  land 
scape  around  appears  little  and  low  to  him,  whose  eye  has 
been  long  directed  to  the  solemn  grandeur  and  wide  mag 
nificence  of  the  starry  heavens.  I  appeal  to  you,  my 
friends,  to  decide  on  the  comparative  dignity  of  the  char 
acters  of  the  proud  and  the  humble  man.  I  call  on  you 
to  say,  whether  our  blessed  Master  has  given  to  humility 
too  high  a  rank  in  the  scale  of  excellence. 


268      COMMON- PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


The  Son. — From  "  The  Idle  Man." — RICHARD  DA.NA 

THERE  is  no  virtue  without  a  characteristic  beauty  to 
make  it  particularly  loved  of  the  good,  and  to  make  the 
bad  ashamed  of  their  neglect  of  it.  To  do  what  is  right 
argues  superior  taste  as  well  as  morals  ;  and  those,  whose 
practice  is  evil,  feel  an  inferiority  of  intellectual  power  and 
enjoyment,  even  where  they  take  no  concern  for  a  prin 
ciple.  Doing  well  has  something  more  in  it  than  the 
fulfilling  of  a  duty.  It  is  a  cause  of  a  just  sense  of  eleva 
tion  of  character ;  it  clears  and  strengthens  the  spirits ;  it 
gives  higher  reaches  of  thought ;  it  widens  our  benevo 
lence,  and  makes  the  current  of  our  peculiar  affections 
swift  and  deep. 

A  sacrifice  was  never  yet  offered  to  a  principle,  that  was 
not  made  up  to  us  by  self-approval,  and  the  consideration 
of  what  our  degradation  would  have  been  had  we  done 
otherwise.  Certainly,  it  is  a  pleasant  and  a  wise  thing, 
then,  to  follow  what  is  right,  when  we  only  go  along  with 
our  affections,  and  take  the  easy  way  of  the  virtuous  pro 
pensities  of  our  nature. 

The  world  is  sensible  of  these  truths,  let  it  act  as  it  may. 
It  is  not  because  of  his  integrity  alone  that,  it  relies  on  an 
honest  man;  but  it  has  more  confidence  in  his  judgment  and 
wise  conduct  in  the  long  run,  than  in  the  schemes  of  those 
of  greater  intellect,  who  go  at  large  without  any  land 
marks  of  principle.  So  that  virtue  seems  of  a  double  na 
ture,  and  to  stand  oftentimes  in  the  place  of  what  we  call 
talent. 

The  reasoning,  or  rather  feeling,  of  the  world  is  all  right, 
for  the  honest  man  only  falls  in  with  the  order  of  nature, 
which  is  grounded  in  truth,  and  will  endure  along  with  it. 
And  such  a  hold  has  a  good  man  upon  the  world,  that,  even 
where  he  has  not  been  called  upon  to  make  a  sacrifice  to  3 
principle,  or  to  take  a  stand  against  wrong,  but  has  merelj 
avoided  running  into  vices,  and  suffered  himself  to  be 
borne  along  by  the  delightful  and  virtuous  affections  of  pn- 
vate  life,  and  has  found  his  pleasure  in  practising  the  dw  • 
ties  of  home, — he  is  looked  up  to  with  respect,  as  well  is 
-egarded  with  kindness.  We  attach  certain  notions  of  re 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  269 

finement  to  his  thoughts,  and  of  depth  to  his  sentiment.  The 
impression  he  makes  on  us  is  beautiful  and  peculiar.  Other 
men  in  his  presence,  though  we  have  nothing  to  object  to 
them,  and  though  they  may  be  very  well  in  their  way,  af 
fect  us  as  lacking  something — we  can  hardly  tell  what — 
a  certain  sensitive  delicacy  of  character  and  manner, 
without  which  they  strike  us  as  more  or  less  vulgar. 

No  creature  in  the  world  has  this  character  so  finely 
marked  in  him,  as  a  respectful  and  affectionate  son — partic 
ularly  in  his  relation  to  his  mother.  Every  little  attention 
he  pays  her  is  not  only  an  expression  of  filial  attachment, 
and  grateful  acknowledgment  of  past  cares,  hut  is  an 
evidence  of  a  tenderness  of  disposition,  which  moves  us  the 
more,  because  not  looked  on  so  much  as  an  essential  prop 
erty  in  a  man's  character,  as  an  added  grace,  which  is 
bestowed  only  upon  a  few.  His  regards  do  not  appear  like 
mere  habits  of  duty,  nor  does  his  watchfulness  of  his 
mother's  wishes  seem  like  taught  submission  to  her  will. 
They  are  the  native  courtesies  of  a  feeling  mind,  showing 
themselves  amidst  stern  virtues  and  masculine  energies 
like  gleams  of  light  on  points  of  rocks.  They  are  de 
lightful  as  evidences  of  power  yielding  voluntary  homage 
to  the  delicacy  of  the  soul.  The  armed  knee  is  bent,  and 
the  heart  of  the  mailed  man  laid  bare. 

Feelings,  that  would  seem  to  be  at  variance  with  each 
other,  meet  together  and  harmonize  in  the  breast  of  a  son. 
Every  call  of  the  mother  which  he  answers  to,  and  every 
act  of  submission  which  he  performs,  are  not  only  so  many 
acknowledgments  of  her  authority,  but,  also,  so  many  in 
stances  of  kindness,  and  marks  of  protecting  regard.  The 
servant  and  defender,  the  child  and  guardian,  are  all  min 
gled  in  him.  The  world  looks  on  him  in  this  way  ;  and 
to  draw  upon  a  man  the  confidence,  the  respect,  and  the 
love  of  the  world,  it  is  enough  to  say  of  him,  He  is  an  ex 
cellent  sou. 

In  looking  over  some  papers  of  a  deceased  acquaintance, 
I  found  the  following  fragment.  He  had  frequently  spoken 
to  me  of  the  person  whom  it  concerned,  and  who  had  been 
his  school-fellow.  I  remember  well  his  one  day  telling 
me,  that,  thinking  the  character  of  his  friend,  and  some 
urcumstances  in  his  life,  wre  of  such  a  kind,  that  an  in- 
23* 


270  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

teresting  moral  litlle  story  might  be  made  from  then*,  he 
had  undertaken  it ;  but  considering,  as  he  was  going  on, 
that  bringing  the  private  character  and  feelings  of  £  de 
ceased  friend  before  the  world  was  something  like  sacriiege, 
though  done  under  a  fictitious  name,  he  had  stopped  soon 
after  beginning  the  tale  ;  that  he  had  laid  it  away  amongst 
his  papers,  and  had  never  looked  at  it  again. 

As  the  person  it  concerns  has  been  a  long  time  dead, 
and  no  relation  survives,  I  do  not  feel  that  there  can  be 
any  impropriety  in  my  now  making  it  public.  I  give  it 
as  it  was  written,  though  evidently  not  revised  by  my 
friend.  Though  hastily  put  together,  and  beginning  as 
abruptly  as  it  ends,  and  with  little  of  story,  and  no  novelty, 
in  the  circumstances,  yet  there  is  a  mournful  tenderness 
in  it,  which,  I  trust  will  interest  others  in  some  portion 
as  it  did  me. 


"  The  sun  not  set  yet,  Thomas  ?"  "  Not  quite,  sir.  It 
blazes  through  the  trees  on  the  hill  yonder  as  if  their 
branches  were  all  on  fire." 

Arthur  raised  himself  heavily  forward,  and,  with  his  ha- 
still  over  his  brow,  turned  his  glazed  and  dim  eyes  towards 
the  setting  sun.  It  was  only  the  night  before  that  he  had 
heard  his  mother  was  ill,  and  could  survive  but  a  day  or 
two.  He  had  lived  nearly  apart  from  society,  and,  being 
a  lad  of  a  thoughtful,  dreamy  mind,  had  made  a  world  to 
himself.  His  thoughts  and  feelings  were  so  much  in  it, 
that,  except  in  relation  to  his  own  home,  there  were  the 
same  vagife  and  strange  notions  in  his  brain,  concerning 
the  state  of  things  surrounding  him,  as  we  have  of  a  foreign 
land. 

The  main  feeling,  which  this  self-made  world  excited  in 
him,  was  love,  and,  like  most  of  his  age,  he  had  formed  to 
himself  a  being  suited  to  his  own  fancies.  This  was  the 
romance  of  life,  and  though  men,  with  minds  like  his,  make 
imagination  to  stand  oftentimes  in  the  place  of  real  exist 
ence,  and  to  take  to  itself  as  deep  feeling  and  concern,  yet, 
in  domestic  relations,  which  are  so  near,  and  usual,  and 
private,  they  feel  longer  a»d  more  deeply  than  those  who 
look  upon  thsir  homes  as  only  a  better  part  of  the  world 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  271 

which  they  belong  to.  Indeed,  in  affectionate  and  good 
men  of  a  visionary  cast,  it  is  in  some  sort  only  realizing  their 
hopes  and  desires,  to  turn  them  homeward.  Arthur  felt  that 
it  was  so,  and  he  loved  his  household  the  more  that  they 
gave  him  an  earnest  of  one  day  realizing  all  his  hopes  and 
attachments. 

Arthur's  mother  was  peculiarly  dear  to  him,  in  having  a 
character  so  much  like  his  own.  For,  though  the  cares  and 
attachments  of  life  had  long  ago  taken  place  of  a  fanciful 
existence  in  her,  yet  her  natural  turn  of  mind  was  strong 
enough  to  give  to  these  something  of  the  romance  of  her 
disposition.  This  had  led  to  a  more  than  usual  openness 
and  intimacy  between  Arthur  and  his  mother,  and  now 
brought  to  his  remembrance  the  hours  they  had  sat  togeth 
er  by  the  fire  light,  when  he  listened  to  her  mild  and  melan 
choly  voice,  as  she  spoke  of  what  she  had  undergone  at  the 
loss  of  her  parents  and  husband.  Her  gentle  rebuke  of  his 
faults,  her  affectionate  look  of  approval  when  he  had  done 
well,  her  care  that  he  should  be  a  just  man,  and  her  moth 
erly  anxiety  lest  the  world  should  go  hard  with  him,  al' 
crowded  into  his  mind,  and  he  thought  that  every  worldlj 
attachment  was  hereafter  to  be  a  vain  thing. 

He  had  passed  the  night  between  violent,  tumultuous 
grief,  and  numb  insensibility.  Stepping  into  the  carriage, 
with  a  slow,  weak  motion,  like  one  who  was  quitting  his 
sick  chamber  for  the  first  time,  he  began  his  journey 
homeward.  As  he  lifted  his  eyes  upward,  the  few  stars, 
that  were  here  and  there  over  the  sky,  seemed  to  look 
down  in  pity,  and  shed  a  religious  and  healing  light  upon 
him.  But  they  soon  went  out,  one  after  another,  and  as 
the  last  faded  from  his  imploring  sight,  it  was  as  if  every 
thing  good  and  holy  had  forsaken  him.  The  faint  tint  in 
thj  east  soon  became  a  ruddy  glow,  and  the  sun,  shooting 
upward,  burst  over  every  living  thing  in  full  glory.  The 
sight  went  to  Arthur's  sick  heart,  as  if  it  were  in  mockery 
of  his  misery. 

Leaning  back  in  his  carriage,  with  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  he  was  carried  along,  hardly  sensible  it  was  day. 
The  old  servant,  Thomas,  who  was  sitting  by  his  side,  went 
on  talking  in  a  low,  monotonous  tone ;  but  Arthur  only 
heard  something  sounding  in  his  ears,  scarcely  heeding 


272  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

that  it  was  a  human  voice.  He  had  a  sense  of  wearisome- 
ness  from  the  motion  of  the  carriage,  but  in  all  things 
else  the  day  passed  as  a  melancholy  dream. 

Almost  the  first  words  Arthur  spoke  were  those  I  have 
mentioned.  As  he  looked  out  upon  the  setting  sun,  he 
shuddered  through  his  whole  frame,  and  then  became  sick 
and  pale.  He  thought  he  knew  the  hill  near  him  ;  and,  as 
they  wound  round  it,  some  peculiar  old  trees  appeared,  and 
he  was  in  a  few  minutes  in  the  midst  of  the  scenery  near 
his  home.  The  river  before  him,  reflecting  the  rich  even 
ing  sky,  looked  as  if  poured  out  from  a  molten  mine.  The 
birds,  gathering  in,  were  shooting  across  each  other,  burst 
ing  into  short,  gay  notes,  or  singing  their  evening  songs  in 
the  trees.  It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  find  all  so  bright  and 
cheerful,  and  so  near  his  own  home  too.  His  horses'  hoofs 
struck  upon  the  old  wooden  bridge.  The  sound  went  to 
his  heart.  It  was  here  his  mother  took  her  last  leave  of 
him,  and  blessed  him. 

As  he  passed  through  the  village,  there  was  a  feeling  of 
strangeness,  that  every  thing  should  be  just  as  it  was  when 
he  left  it.  There  was  an  undefined  thought  floating  in  his 
mind,  that  his  mother's  state  should  produce  a  visible  change 
in  all  that  he  had  been  familiar  with.  But  the  boys  were  at 
their  noisy  games  in  the  street,  the  labourers  returning, 
talking  together,  from  their  work,  and  the  old  men  sitting 
quietly  at  their  doors.  He  concealed  himself  as  well  as 
he  could,  and  bade  Thomas  hasten  on. 

As  they  drew  near  the  house,  the  night  was  shutting  in 
about  it,  and  there  was  a  melancholy  gusty  sound  in  the 
trees.  Arthur  felt  as  if  approaching  his  mother's  tomb 
He  entered  the  parlour.  All  was  as  gloomy  and  still  as  a 
deserted  house.  Presently  he  heard  a  slow,  captious  step, 
over  head.  It  was  in  his  mother's  chamber.  His  sister 
had  seen  him  from  the  window.  She  hurried  down,  and 
threw  her  arms  about  her  brother's  neck,  without  uttering 
a  word.  As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  he  asked,  "  Is  she 
alive  ?" — he  could  not  say,  my  mother.  "  She  is  sleep 
ing,"  answered  his  sister,  "  and  must  not  know  to-night 
that  you  are  here  ;  she  is  too  weak  to  bear  it  now."  "  I 
will  go  look  at  her  then,  while  she  sleeps,"  said  he,  draw 
tng  his  handkerchief  from  his  face.  His  sister's  sympathy 


! 

COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PUOSE.  273 

natl  made  him  shed  the  first  (ears  which  had  fallen  froit 
him  that  day,  and  he  was  more  composed. 

He  entered  the  chamber  with  a  deep  and  still  awe  upon 
him  ;  and,  as  he  drew  near  his  mother's  bed-side,  and  look 
ed  on  her  pale,  placid,  and  motionless  face,  he  scarcely 
dared  breathe,  lest  he  should  Disturb  the  secret  commun 
ion  that  the  soul  was  holding  with  the  world  into  which  it 
was  about  to  enter.  The  loss  that  he  was  about  suffering, 
and  his  heavy  grief,  were  all  forgotten  in  the  feeling  of  a 
holy  inspiration,  and  he  was,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  in 
visible  spirits,  ascending  and  descending.  His  mother's 
lips  moved  slightly  as  she  uttered  an  indistinct  sound.  He 
drew  back,  and  his  sister  went  near  to  her,  and  she  spoke 
It  was  the  same  gentle  voice  which  he  had  known  and 
felt  from  his  childhood.  The  exaltation  of  his  soul  left 
him — he  sunk  down — and  his  misery  went  over  him  like 
a  flood. 

The  next  day,  as  soon  as  his  mother  became  composed 
enough  to  see  him,  Arthur  went  into  her  chamber.  She 
stretched  out  her  feeble  hand,  and  turned  towards  him,  with 
a  look  that  blessed  him.  It  was  the  short  struggle  of  a 
meek  spirit.  She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  the 
tears  trickled  down  between  her  pale,  thin  fingers.  As  soon 
as  she  became  tranquil,  she  spoke  of  the  gratitude  she  felt 
at  being  spared  to  see  him  before  she  died. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Arthur — but  he  could  not  go 
on.  His  voice  was  choked,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
the  agony  of  his  soul  was  visible  in  his  face.  "  Do  not  be 
fo  afflicted,  Arthur,  at  the  loss  ol  me.  We  are  not  to  part 
for  ever.  Remember,  too,  how  comfortable  and  happy  you 
have  made  my  days  Heaven,  I  know,  will  bless  so  good 
a  son  as  you  have  been  to  me.  You  will  have  that  conso 
lation,  my  son,  which  visits  but  a  few — you  will  be  able  to 
look  back  upon  your  past  conduct  to  me,  not  without  pain 
only,  but  with  a  holy  joy.  And  think  hereafter  of  the  peace 
of  mind  you  give  me,  now  that  I  am  about  to  die,  in  the 
thought  that  I  am  leaving  your  sister  to  your  love  and  care. 
So  long  as  you  live,  she  will  find  you  a  father  and  brother 
to  her."  She  paused  for  a  moment.  "  I  have  always  felt 
that  I  could  meet  death  with  composure  ;  but  I  did  not  , 
,"  she  said,  with  a  tremulous  voice,  her  lips  quivering 


274  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

— "  1  did  not  know  how  hard  a  thing  it  would  be  to  eave 
iny  children,  till  now  that  the  hour  has  come." 

After  a  little  while,  she  spoke  of  his  father,  and  said,  she 
had  lived  with  the  belief  that  he  was  mindful  of  her,  and 
with  the  conviction,  w^ich  grew  stronger  as  death  approach 
ed,  that  she  should  meet  him  in  another  world.  She  said 
but  little  more,  as  she  grew  weaker  and  weaker  every  hour. 
Arthur  sat  by  in  silence,  holding  her  hand  He  saw  that  she 
was  sensible  he  was  watching  her  countenance,  for  every 
now  and  then  she  opened  her  dull  eye,  and  looked  towards 
him,  and  endeavoured  to  smile. 

The  day  wore  slowly  away.  The  sun  went  down,  and 
the  melancholy  and  still  twilight  came  on.  Nothing  was 
heard  but  the  ticking  of  the  watch,  telling  him  with  a  re 
sistless  power,  that  the  hour  was  drawing  nigh.  He  gasp 
ed,  as  if  under  some  invisible,  gigantic  grasp,  which  it  was 
not  for  human  strength  to  struggle  against. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and,  by  the  pale  light  of  the  night- 
lamp  in  the  chimney  corner,  the  furniture  in  the  room  threw 
huge  and  uncouth  figures  over  the  walls.  All  was  unsub 
stantial  and  visionary,  and  the  shadowy  ministers  of  death 
appeared  gathering  round,  waiting  the  duty  of  the  hour 
appointed  them.  Arthur  shuddered  for  a  moment  with 
superstitious  awe  ;  but  the  solemn  elevation  which  a  good 
man  feels  at  the  sight  of  the  dying,  took  possession  of  him, 
and  he  became  calm  again. 

The  approach  of  death  has  so  much  which  is  exalting, 
that  our  grief  is,  for  the  time,  forgotten.  And  could  one, 
who  had  seen  Arthur  a  few  hours  before,  now  have  looked 
upon  the  grave  and  grand  repose  of  his  countenance,  he 
would  hardly  have  known  him. 

The  livid  hue  of  death  was  fast  spreading  over  his  moth 
er's  face.  He  stooped  forward  to  catch  the  sound  of  her 
breathing.  It  grew  quick  and  faint. — "My  mother!" — 
She  opened  her  eyes,  for  the  last  time,  upon  him — a  faint 
flush  passed  over  her  cheek — there  was  the  serenity  of 
an  angel  in  her  look — her  hand  just  pressed  his.  It  was 
all  over. 

His  spirit  had  endured  to  its  utmost.  It  sunk  down  fro.u 
its  unearthly  height;  and,  with  his  face  upon  his  mother's 
pillow,  he  wept  like  a  child.  He  arose  with  a  violent  effort, 


COMMON- PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.       275 

and,  stepping  into  the  adjoining  chamber,  spoke  to  his  aunt. 
"  It  is  past,"  aaid  he.  "  Is  my  sister  asleep  i — Well,  then, 
let  her  have  rest ;  she  needs  it."  He  then  went  to  his 
own  dumber,  and  shut  himself  in. 

It  is  a  jierciful  thing  that  the  intense  suffering  of  sensi 
tive  minds  makes  to  itself  a  relief.  Violent  grief  brings 
on  a  torpor,  and  an  indistinctness,  and  dimness,  as  from 
long  watching.  It  is  not  till  the  violence  of  afflict'on  has 
subsided,  and  gentle  and  soothing  thoughts  can  find  room 
to  mix  with  our  sorrow,  and  holy  consolations  can  minister 
to  us,  that  we  are  able  to  know  fully  our  loss,  and  see  clear 
ly  what  has  been  torn  away  from  our  affections.  It  was 
so  with  Arthur.  Unconnected  and  strange  thoughts,  with 
melancholy,  but  half-formed  images,  were  floating  in  his 
mind,  and  now  and  then  a  gleam  of  light  would  pass 
through  it,  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  troubled  trance,  and  all 
was  right  again.  His  worn  and  tired  feelings  at  last  found 
rest  in  sleep. 

It  is  an  impression,  which  we  cannot  rid  ourselves  of  if 
we  would,  when  sitting  by  the  body  of  a  friend,  that  he  has 
still  a  consciousness  of  our  presence  ,  that,  though  the  com 
mon  concerns  of  the  world  have  no  more  to  do  with  him, 
he  has  still  a  love  and  care  of  us.  The  face  which  we  had 
so  long  been  familiar  with,  when  it  was  all  life  and  motion, 
seems  only  in  a  state  of  rest.  We  know  not  how  to  make 
it  real  to  ourselves,  that  the  body  before  us  is  not  a  living 
thing. 

Arthur  was  in  such  a  state  of  mind,  as  he  sat  alone  in 
the  room  by  his  mother,  the  day  after  her  death.  It  was 
as  if  her  soul  had  been  in  paradise,  and  was  now  holding 
communion  with  pure  spirits  there,  though  it  still  abode  in 
the  body  that  lay  before  him.  He  felt  as  if  sanctified  by 
the  presence  of  one  to  whom  the  other  world  had  been 
laid  open — as  if  under  the  love  and  protection,  of  one  male 
holy.  The  religious  reflections  that  his  mother  had  early 
taught  him,  gave  him  strength ;  a  spiritual  composure  stole 
over  him,  and  he  found  himself  prepared  to  perform  the 
last  offices  to  the  dead. 

Is  it  not  enough  to  see  our  friends  die,  and  part  with 
them  for  the  remainder  of  our  days ;  to  reflect  that  we 


276  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

shall  hear  their  voices  no  more,  and  that  they  will  ne>ei 
look  on  us  again  ;  to  see  that  turning  to  corruption,  which 
was  but  just  now  alive,  and  eloquent,  and  beautiful  with 
all  the  sensations  of  the  soul  ?  Are  our  sorrows  so  sacred 
and  peculiar  as  to  make  the  world  as  vanity  to  us,  and  the 
men  of  it  as  strangers  ?  and  shall  we  not  be  left  to  our  af 
flictions  for  a  few  hours  ?  Must  we  be  brought  out  at  such 
a  time  to  the  concerned  or  careless  gaze  of  these  we  know 
not,  or  be  made  to  bear  the  formal  proffers  of  consolations 
from  acquaintances  who  will  go  away  and  forget  it  all  ? 
Shall  we  not  be  suffered,  a  little  while,  a  holy  and  healing 
communion  with  the  dead  ?  Must  the  kindred  stillness 
and  gloom  of  our  dwelling  be  changed  for  the  solemn  show 
of  the  pall,  the  talk  of  the  passers-by,  and  the  broad  and 
piercing  light  of  the  common  sun  ?  Must  the  ceremonies 
of  the  world  wait  on  us  even  to  the  open  graves  of  our 
friends  ? 

When  the  hour  came,  Arthur  rose  with  a  firm  step  and 
fixed  eye,  though  his  whole  face  was  tremulous  with  the 
struggle  within  him.  He  went  to  his  sister,  and  took  her 
arm  within  his.  The  bell  struck.  Its  heavy,  undulating 
sound  rolled  forward  like  a  sea.  He  felt  a  violent  beating 
through  his  whole  frame,  which  shook  him  that  he  reeled 
It  was  but  a  momentary  weakness.  He  moved  on,  passing 
those  who  surrounded  him,  as  if  they  had  been  shadows 
While  he  followed  the  slow  hearse,  there  was  a  vacancy  in 
his  eye,  as  it  rested  on  the  coffin,  which  showed  him  hardly 
conscious  of  what  was  before  him.  His  spirit  was  with  his 
mother's.  As  he  reached  the  grave,  he  shrunk  back,  and 
turned  deadly  pale  ;  but,  sinking  his  head  upon  his  breast, 
and  drawing  his  hat  over  his  face,  he  stood  motionless  as  a 
statue  till  the  service  was  over. 

He  had  gone  through  all  that  the  forms  of  society  requir 
ed  of  him.  For,  as  painful  as  the  effort  was,  and  as  little 
suited  as  such  forms  were  to  his  own  thoughts  upon  the  sub 
ject,  yet  he  could  not  do  any  thing  that  might  appear  to  the 
world  like  a  want  of  reverence  and  respect  for  his  mother. 
The  scene  was  ended,  and  the  inward  struggle  over ;  and 
now  that  he  was  left  to  himself,  the  greatness  of  his  loss 
came  up  full  and  distinctly  before  him. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  277 

It  was  a  dreary  and  chilly  evening  when  he  returned 
home.  When  he  entered  the  house  trorn  which  his  mother 
had  gone  for  e<"er,  a  sense  of  dreary  emptiness  oppressed 
him,  as  if  his  very  abode  had  been  deserted  by  every  IJT- 
ing  thing.  He  walked  into  his  mother's  chamber.  The 
nuked  bedstead,  and  the  chair  in  which  she  used  to  sit, 
were  all  that  was  left  in  the  room.  As  he  threw  himself 
back  into  the  chair,  he  groaned  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
spiiit.  A  feeling  of  tbrlornness  came  over  him,  which  was 
not  to  be  relieved  by  tears.  She,  whom  he  had  watched 
over  in  her  dying  hour,  and  whom  he  had  talked  to  as  she 
lay  before  him  in  death,  as  if  she  could  hear  and  answer 
him,  had  gone  from  him.  Nothing  was  left  for  the  senses 
to  fasten  fondly  on,  and  time  had  not  yet  taught  him  to 
lliink  of  her  only  as  a  spirit.  But  time  and  holy  endeav 
ours  brought  this  consolation  ;  and  the  little  of  life  that  a 
wasting  disease  left  him,  was  past  by  him,  when  alone,  in 
thoughtful  tranquillity ;  and  amongst  his  friends  he  appear- 
cci  with  that  gentle  cheerfulness,  which,  before  his  mother's 
death,  had  been  a  part  of  his  nature. 


Neglect  of  foreign  Literature  in  America. — AMERICAN 
QUARTERLY  REVIEW. 

THE  curiosity  of  our  nation  in  literature  is  not  sufficient 
ly  expansive  ;  our  public  refuses  its  attention  to  works  writ 
ten  for  another  hemisphere,  and  a  different  state  of  society. 
This  i*  natural,  but  it  is  not  wise. 

The  facJity  of  receiving  enjoyment  from  a  variety  of 
sources  is  an  advantage  of  high  value.  It  is  well  to  re 
joice  in  every  exhibition  of  genius.  What  should  we  think 
of  the  man,  who  not  only  clings  to  the  pleasures  rendered 
dear  by  habit,  hut  denies  that  there  are  others  to  be  set  in 
comparison  with  them  ?  And  yet  we  -hear  hasty  judgments 
on  the  merits  of  whole  classes  of  writers.  Every  mac 
has,  indeed,  the  right,  to  choose  his  own  guides  to  the  sum 
mit  of  Olympus  ;  but  we  question  the  soundness  of  those 
who  deny  th;  t  there  are  more  ways  than  one.  Such  ar 
24 


27S  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

opinion  could  be  explained,  only  as  the  result  of  men 
tal  imbecility,  of  a  narrowness  that  submits  to  the 
shackles  of  prejudice.  Born  and  bred  in  a  temperate 
zone,  we  all  admire  the  loveliness  of  our  landscape,  where 
the  graceful  foliage  of  our  trees  is  mingled  with  the  rich 
verdure  of  our  meadows,  and  the  abundance  of  our  har 
vests.  But  shall  we  have  no  eye  for  other  charms  ?  Shall  a 
Swiss  scene,  where  the  glaciers  enter  the  fertile  valley,  and 
winter  and  summer  are  seen  side  by  side,  have  no  power  to 
please  us  ?  or  a  scene  beneath  a  southern  sky,  where  the 
palm  trees  lift  t1  fir  heads  in  slender  magnificence,  the  for 
ests  are  alive  with  birds,  and  glitter  with  the  splendour  of 
variegated  plumage,  and  earth  is  gay  with  all  the  colours 
that  gain  their  deep  tints  under  a  tropic  sun  ?  The  eye, 
that  communes  with  nature,  and  understands  it,  discerns 
loveliness  in  all  its  forms.  And  shall  we,  who  are  certain 
ly  not  incurious  as  to  the  concerns  of  this  world,  be  indif- 
ferent.to  foreign  letters?  Must  we  be  so  engrossed  with 
the  language  and  concerns  of  business,  that  we  cannot  lis 
ten  to  the  language  of  poetic  inspiration  ?  And  must  we 
forever  and  unceasingly  be  deafened  by  the  din  of  con 
gressional  rivalries  ?  Is  there,  between  the  acclamations 
and  rebukes  of  partisans,  and  the  hot  warfare  of  canvass 
for  office,  no  happy  moment  of  tranquillity,  in  which  Learn 
ing  may  raise  her  head  fearlessly,  and  be  respected,  and 
the  pursuits  of  contemplative  life  be  cheered  by  the  free 
expression  of  general  approbation,  and  quickened  into  ex 
cellence  by  the  benignity  of  an  attentive  nation  ?  We 
cannot  as  yet  be  said  to  have  a  national  literature  ;  but 
we  already  have  the  promise  of  one,  and  the  first  fruits 
As  the  literary  character  of  the  country  is  developed,  it 
should  resemble  our  political  institutions  in  liberality,  ind 
welcome  excellence  from  every  quarter  of  the  world. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  279 


Death  a  sublime  and  universal  Moralist. — SPARKS.* 

No  object  is  so  insignificant,  no  event  so  trivial,  as  not 
to  carry  with  it  a  moral  and  religious  influence.  The  trees 
that  spring  out  of  the  earth  are  moralists.  They  are  em 
blems  of  the  life  of  man.  They  grow  up ;  they  put  on 
the  garments  of  freshness  and  beauty.  Yet  these  continue 
but  for  a  time  ;  decay  seizes  upon  the  root  and  the  trunk, 
and  they  gradually  go  back  to  their  original  elements. 
The  blossoms  that  open  to  the  rising  sun,  but  are  closed 
at  night  never  to  open  again,  are  moralists.  The  seasons 
are  moralists,  teaching  the  lessons  of  wisdom,  manifesting 
the  wonders  of  the  Creator,  and  calling  on  man  to  reflect 
on  his  condition  and  destiny.  History  is  a  perpetual  mor 
alist,  disclosing  the  annals  of  past  ages,  showing  the  im- 
potency  of  pride  and  greatness,  the  weakness  of  human 
power,  the  folly  of  human  wisdom.  The  daily  occurren 
ces  in  society  are  moralists.  The  success  or  failure  of  en 
terprise,  the  prosperity  of  the  bad,  the  adversity  of  the 
good,  the  disappointed  hopes  of  the  sanguine  and  active, 
the  sufferings  of  the  virtuous,  the  caprices  of  fortune  in 
every  condition  of  life,  all  these  are  fraught  with  moral  in 
structions,  and,  if  properly  applied,  will  fix  the  power  of 
religion  in  the  heart. 

But  there,  is  a  greater  moralist  still ;  and  that  is,  DEATH. 
Here  is  a  teacher,  who  speaks  in  a  voice,  which  none  can 
mistake ;  who  comes  with  a  power,  which  none  can  resist. 
Since  we  last  assembled  in  this  place  as  the  humble  and 
united  worshippers  of  God,  this  stern  messenger,  this  mys 
terious  agent  of  Omnipotence,  has  come  among  our  num 
bers,  and  laid  his  withering  hand  on  one,  whom  we  have 
been  taught  to  honour  and  respect,  whose  fame  was  a  na 
tion's  boast,  whose  genius  was  a  brilliant  spark  from  the 
tthereal  fire,  whose  attainments  were  equalled  only  by  the 
grasp  of  his  intellect,  the  profoundness  of  his  judgment, 
the  exuberance  of  his  fancy,  the  magic  of  his  eloquence. 


*  From  a  Sermon  on  the  death  of  the  Hon.  William  Pinekney, 
preached  March  3d,  1329,  in  the  hall  of  the  house  of  representatives  in 
congress. — ED. 


280  COMMON-PLACK  BOOR  OF  PROSE 

It  is  not  my  present  purpose  to  ask  your  attention  to  anj 
picture  drawn  in  the  studied  phrase  of  eulogy.  I  aim  nol 
to  describe  the  commanding  powers  and  the  eminent  qaal- 
ities,  which  conducted  the  deceased  to  the  superiority  he 
held,  and  which  were  at  once  the  admiration  and  the  pride 
of  his  countrymen.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  Analyze  his  capa 
cious  mind,  nor  to  set  forth  the  richness  and  variety  of  its 
treasures.  The  trophies  of  his  genius  are  a  sufficient  tes 
timony  of  these,  and  constitute  a  monument  to  his  memo 
ry,  which  will  stand  firm  and  conspicuous  amidst  the  faded 
recollections  of  future  ages.  The  present  is  not  the  time 
to  recount  the  sources  cr  the  memorials  of  his  greatness 
He  is  gone.  The  noblest  of  Heaven's  gifts  could  not 
shield  even  him  from  the  arrows  of  the  destroyer.  And 
this  behest  of  the  Most  High  is  a  warning  summons  to  us 
all.  When  Death  comes  into  our  doors,  we  ought  to  feel 
that  he  is  near.  When  his  irreversible  sentence  falls  on 
the  great  and  the  renowned,  when  he  severs  the  strongest 
bonds,  which  can  bind  mortals  to  earth,  we  ought  to  feel 
that  our  hold  on  life  is  slight,  that  the  thread  of  existence 
is  slender,  that  we  walk  amidst  perils,  where  the  next  wave 
in  the  agitated  sea  of  life  may  baffle  all  our  struggles,  and 
carry  us  back  into  the  dark  bosom  of  the  deep. 

When  we  look  at  the  monuments  of  human  greatness, 
and  the  powers  of  human  intellect,  all  that  genius  has  in 
vented,  or  skill  executed,  or  wisdom  matured,  or  industry 
achieved,  or  labour  accomplished ;  when  we  trace  the.=e 
through  the  successive  gradations  of  human  advancement, 
what  are  they  ?  On  these  are  founded  the  pride,  glory, 
dignity  of  man.  And  what  are  they  ?  Compared  with 
the  most  insignificant  work  of  God,  they  are  nothing,  less 
than  nothing.  The  mightiest  works  of  man  are  daily  and 
hourly  becoming  extinct.  The  boasted  theories  of  reli 
gion,  morals,  government,  which  took  the  wisdom,  the  in 
genuity  of  ages  to  invent,  have  been  proved  to  be  shad 
owy  theories  only.  Genius  has  wasted  itself  in  vain  ;  the 
visions  it  has  raised  have  vanished  at  the  touch  of  truth. 
Nothing  is  left  hut  the  melancholy  certainty,  that  all  things 
human  are  imperfect,  and  must  fail  and  decay.  And  man 
himself,  whose  works  are  so  fragile,  where  is  he  ?  Th« 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  281 

history  of  his  works  is  the  history  of  himself.     He  existed ; 
he  is  gone.  » 

The  nature  of  human  life  cannot  be  more  forcibly  de 
scribed  than  in  the  beautiful  language  of  eastern  poetry, 
which  immediately  precedes  the  text:  "  Man,  that  is  born 
of  woman,  is  of  few  days,  and  full  cf  trouble.  He  cometh 
forth  like  a  flower,  and  is  cut  down  ;  he  fleeth  as  a  shadow, 
and  contiuueth  not.  There  is  hope  of  a  tree,  if  it  be  cut 
down,  that  it  will  sprout  again,  and  that  the  tender  branch 
thereof  will  not  cease.  Though  the  root  thereof  wax  old 
in  the  earth,  and  the  stock  thereof  die  in  the  ground  ;  yet, 
through  the  scent  of  water,  it  will  bud  and  bring  forth 
boughs  like  a  plant.  But  man  wasteth  away  ;  yea,  man 
giveth  up  the  ghost,  and  where  is  he  ?"  Such  are  the  strik 
ing  emblems  of  human  life  ;  such  is  the  end  of  all  that  is 
mortal  in  man.  And  what  a  question  is  here  for  us  to 
reflect  upon !  "  Man  giveth  up  the  ghost,  and  where 
is  he  ?" 

Yes,  when  we  see  the  flower  of  life  fade  on  its  stalk, 
and  all  its  comeliness  depart,  and  all  its  freshness  wither  ; 
when  we  see  the  bright  eye  grow  dim,  and  the  rose  on  the 
cheek  lose  its  hue  ;  when  we  hear  the  voice  faltering  its 
last  accents,  and  see  the  energies  of  nature  paralyzed  ; 
when  we  perceive  the  beams  of  intelligence  grow  fainter 
and  fainter  on  the  countenance,  and  the  last  gleam  of  life 
extinguished ;  when  we  deposit  all  that  is  mortal  of  a  fel 
low-being  in  the  dark,  cold  chamber  of  the  grave,  and  drop 
a  pitying  tear  at  a  spectacle  so  humiliating,  so  mournful ; 
then  let  us  put  the  solemn  question  to  our  souls,  Where  is 
he  ?  His  body  is  concealed  in  the  earth  ;  but  where  is 
the  spirit  ?  Where  is  the  intellect  that  could  look  through 
the  works  of  God,  and  catch  inspiration  from  the  Divinity 
which  animates  and  pervades  the  whole  ?  Where  are  the 
powers  that  could  command,  the  attractions  that  could 
charm?  where  the  boast  of  humanity,  wisdom,  learning, 
wit,  eloquence,  the  pride  of  skill,  the  mystery  of  art,  the 
creations  of  fancy,  the  brilliancy  of  thought  ?  where  the 
virtues  that  could  win,  and  the  gentleness  that  could  soothe  ? 
where  the  mildness  of  temper,  the  generous  affections,  the 
benevolent  feelings,  all  that  is  great  and  good,  all  that  is 
noble,  and  lovely,  and  pure,  in  the  human  charicter.— •  • 
24  * 


232  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

where  are  they  ?  They  are  gone.  We  can  see  nothing 
the  eye  of  Caith  only  can  dimly  penetrate  the  region  to 
which  they  have  fled.  Lift  the  eye  of  faith ;  follow  the 
light  of  the  Gospel ;  and  let  your  delighted  vision  be  lost 
in  the  glories  of  the  immortal  world.  Behold,  there,  the 
spirits  of  the  righteous  dead  rising  up  into  newness  of  life, 
gathering  brightness  and  strength,  unencumbered  by  the 
weight  of  mortal  clay  and  mortal  sorrows,  enjoying  a 
happy  existence,  and  performing  the  holy  service  of  their 
Maker. 

Let  our  reflections  on  death  have  a  weighty  and  immedi- 
ate  influence  on  our  minds  and  characters.  We  cannot  be 
too  soon  nor  too  entirely  prepared  to  render  the  account, 
which  we  must  all  render  to  our  Maker  and  Judge.  All 
things  earthly  must  fail  us  ;  the  riches,  power,  possessions 
and  gifts  of  the  world  will  vanish  from  our  sight ;  friends 
and  relatives  will  be  left  behind  ;  our  present  support  will 
be  taken  away ;  our  strength  will  become  weakness ;  and 
the  earth  itself,  and  all  its  pomps,  and  honours,  and  attrac 
tions  will  disappear.  Why  have  we  been  spared  even  till 
this  time  ?  We  know  not  why,  nor  yet  can  we  say  that  a 
moment  is  our  own.  The  summons  for  our  departure  may 
now  be  recorded  in  the  book  of  Heaven.  The  angel  may 
now  be  on  his  way  to  execute  his  solemn  commission. 
Death  may  already  have  marked  us  for  his  victims.  But, 
whether  sooner  or  later,  the  event  will  be  equally  awful, 
and  demand  the  same  preparation. 

One,  only,  will  then  be  our  rock  and  our  safety.  The 
kind  Parent,  who  has  upheld  us  all  our  days,  will  remain 
our  unfailing  support.  With  him  is  no  change  ;  he  is  un 
moved  from  age  to  age  ;  his  mercy,  as  well  as  his  being, 
endures  forever  ;  and,  if  we  rely  on  him,  and  live  in  obe 
dience  to  his  laws,  all  tears  shall  be  wiped  from  our  eyes, 
and  all  sorrow  banished  from  our  hearts.  If  we  are  rebels 
to  his  cause,  slaves  to  vice,  and  followers  of  evil,  we  must 
expect  the  displeasure  of  a  holy  God,  the  just  punishment 
of  our  folly  and  wickedness ;  for  a  righteous  retribution 
will  be  awarded  to  the  evil  as  well  as  to  the  good. 

Let  it  be  the  highest,  the  holiest,  the  unceasing  concern 
of  each  one  of  us,  to  live  the  life,  that  we  may  be  pre 
pared  to  die  the  death,  of  the  rig  .teous ;  that,  whet,  'hey 

.  J 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  283 

who  come  after  us  shall  ask,  Where  is  he  ?  unnumbered 
voices  shall  be  raised  to  testify,  that,  although  his  mortal 
remains  are  mouldering  in  the  cold  earth,  his  memory  is 
embalmed  in  the  cherished  recollections  of  many  a  friend 
who  knew  and  loved  him  ;  and  all  shall  say,  with  tokens 
o"  joy  and  confident  belief,  If  God  be  just,  and  piety  be 
rewarded,  his  pure  spirit  is  now  at  rest  in  the  regions  of 
the  blessed. 


Battle  of  Bunker  Hill. — COOPER. 

THE  whole  scene  now  lay  before  them.  Nearly  in 
their  front  was  the  village  of  Charlestown,  with  its  desert 
ed  streets,  and  silent  roofs,  looking  like  a  place  of  the  dead ; 
or,  if  the  signs  of  life  were  visible  within  its  open  avenues, 
'twas  merely  some  figure  moving  swiftly  in  the  solitude, 
like  one  who  hastened  to  quit  the  devoted  spot.  On  the 
opposite  point  of  the  south-eastern  face  of  the  peninsula, 
and  at  the  distance  of  a  thousand  yards,  the  ground  was 
already  covered  by  masses  of  human  beings,  in  scarlet, 
with  their  arms  glittering  in  a  noon-day  sun.  Between  the 
two,  though  in  the  more  immediate  vicinity  of  the  silent 
town,  the  rounded  ridge,  already  described,  rose  abruptly 
from  a  flat  that  was  bounded  by  the  water,  until,  having 
attained  an  elevation  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  it  swelled 
gradually  to  the  little  crest,  where  was  planted  the  hum 
ble  object  that  had  occasioned  all  this  commotion.  The 
meadows,  on  the  right,  were  still  peaceful  and  smiling,  as 
in  the  most  quiet  days  of  the  province,  though  the  excited 
fancy  of  Lionel  imagined  that  a  sullen  stillness  lingered 
Jkbout  the  neglected  kilns  in  their  front,  and  over  the  whole 
landscape,  that  was  in  gloomy  consonance  with  the  ap 
proaching  scene.  Far  on  the  left,  across  the  waters  of  the 
Charles,  'he  American  camp  had  poured  forth  its  thousands 
to  the  hills  ;  and  the  whole  population  of  the  country,  for 
many  miles  inland,  had  gathered  to  a  point,  to  witness  a 
struggle  charged  with  the  fate  of  their  nation.  Beacon 
Hill  rose  from  out  the  appalling  silence  of  the  town  of  Bos- 
Jon,  like  a  pyramid  of  living  faces,  with  every  eye  fixed 


S84  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

on  the  fatal  point ;  and  men  hung  along  the  yards  of  the 
slumping,  or  were  suspended  on  cornices,  cupolas,  and  stee 
ples,  in  thoughtless  security,  while  every  other  sense  was 
lost  in  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  sight.  The  vessels  of 
war  had  hauled  deep  into  the  rivers,  or,  more  properly, 
those  narrow  arms  of  the  sea,  which  formed  the  peninsula. 
and  sent  their  iron  missiles  with  unwearied  industry  actors 
the  low  passage,  which  alone  opened  the  means  of  commu 
nication  between  the  self-devoted  yeomen  on  the  hill  and 
their  distant  countrymen.  While  battalion  landed  after 
battalion  on  the  point,  cannon-balls  from  the  battery  of 
Copp's,  and  the  vessels  of  war,  were  glancing  up  the"  nat 
ural  glacis  that  surrounded  the  redoubt,  burying  themselves 
in  its  earthen  parapet,  or  plunging  with  violence  into  tho 
deserted  sides  of  the  loftier  height  which  lay  a  few  hun 
dred  yards  in  its  rear  ;  and  the  black  and  smoking  bombs 
appeared  to  hover  above  the  spot,  as  if  pausing  to  select 
the  places  in  which  to  plant  their  deadly  combustibles. 

Notwithstanding  these  appalling  preparations,  and  cease 
less  annoyances,  throughout  that  long  and  anxious  morn 
ing,  the  stout  husbandmen  on  the  hill  had  never  ceased 
their  steady  efforts  to  maintain,  to  the  uttermost  extremity, 
the  post  they  had  so  daringly  assumed.  In  vain  the  Eng 
lish  exhausted  every  means  to  disturb  their  stubborn  foes  ; 
the  pick,  the  shovel  and  the  spade  continued  to  perform 
their  offices,  and  mound  rose  after  mound,  amidst  the  din 
and  danger  of  the  cannonade,  steadily,  and  as  well  as  if  the 
fanciful  conceits  of  Job  Pray  embraced  their  real  objects, 
and  the  labourers  were  employed  in  the  peaceful  pursuits 
of  their  ordinary  lives.  This  firmness,  however,  was  not 
like  the  proud  front  which  high  training  can  impart  to  the 
most  common  mind ;  for,  ignorant  of  the  glare  of  military 
show  ;  in  the  simple  and  rude  vestments  of  their  calling  •, 
armed  with  such  weapons  as  they  had  seized  from  the 
hooks  above  their  own  mantels ;  and  without  even  a  ban 
ner  to  wave  its  cheering  folds  above  their  heads,  they 
stood,  sustained  only  by  the  righteousness  of  their  cause, 
and  those  deep  moral  principles,  which  they  had  received 
from  their  fathers,  and  which  they  intended  this  day  should 
show  were  to  be  transmitted  untarnished  to  their  children, 
It  was  afterwards  known,  that  they  endured  thr-ir  labours 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  286 

and  their  dangers  even  in  want  of  that  sustenance,  which 
is  so  essential  to  support  animal  spirits  in  moments  of  calm 
ness  and  ease  ;  while  their  enemies,  on  the  point,  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  their  latest  bands,  were  securely  devouring 
a  meal,  which,  to  hundreds  amongst  them,  proved  to  be  their 
last.  The  fatal  instant  now  seemed  approaching.  A  gen 
eral  movement  was  seen  among  the  battalions  of  the  Brit 
ish,  who  began  to  spread  along  the  shore,  under  cover  of 
the  brow  of  the  hill — the  lingering  boats  having  arrived 
with  the  rear  of  their  detachments — and  officers  hurried 
from  regiment  to  regiment  with  the  final  mandates  of  their 
chief.  At  this  moment  a  body  of  Americans  appeared  on 
the  crown  of  Bunker  Hill,  and,  descending  swiftly  by  the 
c-oad,  disappeared  in  the  meadows  to  the  left  of  their  own 
redoubt.  This  band  was  followed  by  others,  who,  like 
themselves,  had  broken  through  the  dangers  of  the  nar 
row  pass,  by  braving  the  fire  of  the  shipping,  and  who  also 
hurried  to  join  their  comrades  on  the  low  land.  The  Brit 
ish  general  determined  at  once  to  anticipate  the  arrival  of 
further  re-enforcements,  and  gave  forth  the  long-expected 
order  to  prepare  for  the  attack. 

The  Americans  had  made  a  show,  in  the  course  of  that 
fearful  morning,  of  returning  the  fire  of  their  enemies,  by 
throwing  a  few  shot  from  their  light  field-pieces,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  tremendous  cannonade  which  they  sus 
tained.  But  as  the  moment  of  severest  trial  approached, 
the  same  awful  stillness,  which  had  settled  upon  the  de 
serted  streets  of  Charlestown,  hovered  around  the  redoubt. 
On  the  meadows,  to  its  left,  the  recently  arrived  bands  has 
tily  threw  the  rails  of  two  fences  into  one,  and,  covering 
the  whole  with  the  mown  grass  that  surrounded  them,  they 
posted  themselves  along  the  frail  defence,  which  answer 
ed  no  better  purpose  than  to  conceal  their  weakness  from 
their  adversaries.  Behind  this  characteristic  rampart, 
several  bodies  of  husbandmen,  from  the  neighbouring 
provinces  of  New  Hampshire  and  Connecticut,  lay  on 
their  arms,  in  sullen  expectation.  Their  line  extended 
from  the  shore  to  the  base  of  the  ridge,  where  it  termi 
nated  several  hundred  feet  behind  the  works ;  leaTing  is 
wide  opening,  in  a  diagonal  direction,  between  the  fence 
and  an  earthen  breastwork,  which  ran  a  short  distance 


286  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSK. 

down  the  declivity  of  the  hill,  from  the  north-eastern  angle 
of  the  redoubt.  A  few  hundred  yards  in  the  rear  of  this 
rude  disposition,  the  naked  crest  of  Bunker  Hill  rose  unoc 
cupied  and  undefended ;  and  the  streams  of  the  Charles 
and  Mystick,  sweeping  around  its  hase,  approached  so  near 
each  other  as  to  blend  the  sounds  of  their  rippling.  It  was 
across  this  low  and  narrow  isthmus,  that  the  royal  frigates 
poured  a  stream  of  fire,  that  never  ceased,  while  around 
it  hovered  the  numerous  parties  of  the  undisciplined  Ameri 
cans,  hesitating  to  attempt  the  dangerous  passage. 

In  this  manner  Gage  had,  in  a  great  degree,  surround 
ed  the  devoted  peninsula  with  his  power  ;  and  the  bold 
men,  who  had  so  daringly  planted  themselves  under  the 
muzzles  of  his  cannon,  were  left,  as  already  stated,  unsup 
ported,  without  nourishment,  and  with  weapons  from  their 
own  gunhooks,  singly  to  maintain  the  honour  of  their  na 
tion.  Including  men  of  all  ages  and  conditions,  there 
might  have  been  two  thousand  of  them  ;  but,  as  the  day 
advanced,  small  bodies  of  their  countrymen,  taking  counsel 
of  their  feelings,  and  animated  by  the  example  of  the  old 
partisan  of  the  woods,  who  crossed  and  recrossed  the  neck, 
.'oudly  scoffing  at  the  danger,  broke  through  the  fire  of  the 
shipping  in  time  to  join  in  the  closing  and  bloody  business 
of  the  hour. 

On  the  other  hand,  Howe  led  more  than  an  equal  num 
ber  of  the  chosen  troops  of  his  prince  ;  and  as  boats  con 
tinued  to  ply  between  the  two  peninsulas  throughout  the 
afternoon,  the  relative  disparity  continued  undiminished  to 
the  end  of  the  struggle.  It  was  at  this  point  in  our  narra 
tive  that,  deeming  himself  sufficiently  strong  to  force  the 
defences  of  his  despised  foes,  the  arrangements  immediate 
ly  preparatory  to  such  an  undertaking  were  made  in  full 
view  of  the  -excited  spectators.  Notwithstanding  the  se 
curity  with  which  the  English  general  marshalled  his  war 
riors,  he  felt  that  the  approaching  contest  would  be  a  bat 
tle  of  no  common  incidents.  The  eyes  of  tens  of  thousands 
were  fastened  on  his  movements,  and  the  occasion  demand 
ed  the  richest  display  of  the  pageantry  of  war. 

The  troops  formed  with  beautiful  accuracy,  and  the  col 
umns  moved  steadily  along  the  shore,  and  took  their  assign 
ed  stations  under  cover  of  the  brow  of  the  eminence.  Thcii 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  281 

force  was  in  some  measure  divided  ;  one  moiety  attempting 
the  toilsome  ascent  of  the  hill,  and  the  ither  moving  along 
the  beach,  or  in  the  orchards  of  the  more  level  ground,  to 
wards  the  husbandmen  on  the  meadows.  The  latter  soon 
disappeared  behind  some  fruit-trees  and  the  brick-kilns  just 
mentioned.  The  advance  of  the  royal  columns  up  the  as 
cent  was  slow  and  measured,  giving  time  to  their  field- 
guns  to  add  their  efforts  to  the  uproar  of  the  cannonade, 
which  broke  out  with  new  fury  as  the  battalions  prepared 
to  march.  When  each  column  arrived  at  the  allotted  point, 
it  spread  the  gallant  array  of  its  glittering  warriors  under 
a  bright  sun. 

"  It  is  a  glorious  spectacle,"  murmured  the  graceful 
chieftain  by  the  side  of  Lionel,  keenly  alive  to  all  the  po 
etry  of  his  alluring  profession ;  "  how  exceeding  soldier 
like  !  and  with  what  accuracy  his  '  first-arm  ascends  the 
hill,'  towards  his  enemy!" 

The  intensity  of  his  feelings  prevented  Major  Lincoln 
from  replying,  and  the  other  soon  forgot  that  he  had  spoken, 
in  the  overwhelming  anxiety  of  the  moment.  The  ad 
vance  of  the  British  line,  so  beautiful  and  slow,  resembled 
rather  the  ordered  steadiness  of  a  drill,  than  an  approach 
to  a  deadly  struggle.  Their  standards  fluttered  proudly 
above  them  ;  and  there  were  moments  when  the  wild  mu 
sic  of  their  bands  was  heard  rising  on  the  air,  and  temper 
ing  the  ruder  sounds  of  the  artillery.  The  young  and 
thoughtless  in  their  ranks  turned  their  faces  backward,  and 
smiieJ  exultingly,  as  they  beheld  steeples,  roofs,  masts,  and 
heights,  teeming  with  their  thousands  of  eyes,  bent  on  the 
show  of  their  bright  array.  As  the  British  lines  moved 
in  open  view  of  the  little  redoubt,  and  began  slowly  tc 
gather  around  its  different  faces,  gun  after  gun  became  si 
lent,  and  the  curious  artillerist,  or  tired  seaman,  lay  ex 
tended  on  his  heated  piece,  gazing  in  mute  wonder  at  the 
spectacle.  There  was  just  then  a  minute  when  the  roar 
of  the  cannonade  seemed  passing  away  like  the  rumbling 
af  distant  thunder. 

"  They  will  not  fight,  Lincoln,"  said  the  animated  leader 
at  the  side  of  Lionel — "  the  military  front  of  Howe  has 
chilled  the  hearts  of  the  knaves,  and  our  victory  will  bfl 
bloodless !" 


288  COMMON-PLACE    HOOK  OF  PROSB. 

"  We  shall  see,  sir — we  shall  see  !" 

These  words  were  barely  uttered,  when  platoon  after 
platoon,  among  the  British,  delivered  its  fire,  the  blaze  of 
musketry  flashing  swiftly  around  the  brow  of  the  hill,  ano 
was  immediately  followed  by  heavy  volleys  that  ascended 
from  the  orchard.  Still  no  answering  sound  was  heard 
from  the  Americans,  and  the  royal  troops  were  soon  lost  to 
the  eye,  as  they  slowly  inarched  into  the  white  cloud  which 
their  own  fire  had  alone  created. 

"  They  are  cowed,  by  heavens ! — the  dogs  are  cowed  !" 
once  more  cried  the  gay  companion  of  Lionel,  "  and  Howe 
is  within  two  hundred  feet  of  them  unharmed  !" 

At  that  instant  a  sheet  of  flame  glanced  through  the 
smoke,  like  lightning  playing  in  a  cloud,  while  at  one  re 
port  a  thousand  muskets  were  added  to  the  uproar.  It  was 
not  altogether  fancy,  which  led  Lionel  to  imagine  that  he 
saw  the  smoky  canopy  of  the  hill  to  wave,  as  if  the  trained 
warriors  it  enveloped  faltered  before  this  close  and  appalling 
discharge  ;  but,  in  another  instant,  the  stimulating  war-cry, 
and  the  loud  shouts  of  the  combatants,  were  borne  across 
the  strait  to  his  ears,  even  amid  the  horrid  din  of  the  corn- 
bat.  Ten  breathless  minutes  flew  by  like  a  moment  of 
time,  and  the  bewildered  spectators  on  Copp's  were  still 
gazing  intently  on  the  scene,  when  a  voice  was  raised  among 
them,  shouting — 

"  Hurrah !  let  the  rake-hellies  go  up  to  Breed's ;  the 
people  will  teach  'em  the  law  !" 

"  Throw  the  rebel  scoundrel  from  the  hill !  Blow 
him  from  the  muzzle  of  a  gun!"  cried  twenty  soldiers  in 
a  breath. 

"  Hold  !"  exclaimed  Lionel — "  'tis  a  simpleton,  an  idiot, 
a  fool !" 

But  the  angry  and  savage  murmurs  as  quickly  subsided, 
and  were  lost  in  other  feelings,  as  the  bright  red  lines  of 
the  royal  troops  were  seen  issuing  from  the  smoke,  waving 
and  recoiling  before  the  still  vivid  fire  of  their  enemies. 

"  Ha  !"  said  Burgoyne — "  'tis  some  feint  to  draw  the 
rebels  from  their  hold  !" 

"  'Tis  a  palpable  and  disgraceful  retreat !"  muttered  the 
st«rn  warrior  nigh  him,  whose  truer  eye  detected  at  a  glance 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE.  289 

the  discomfiture  of  the  assailants. — "  'Tis  another  base  re 
treat  before  the  rebels  !" 

"  Hurrah !"  shouted  the  reckless  changeling  again ; 
•'  there  come  the  reg'lars  out  of  the  orchard  too ! — see  th« 
giannies  skulking  behind  the  kilns!  Let  them  go  on  t- 
Breed's ;  the  people  will  teach  'em  the  law  !" 

No  cry  of  vengeance  preceded  the  act  this  time,  but  fifty 
of  the  soldiery  rushed,  as  by  a  common  impulse,  on  their 
prey.  Lionel  had  not  time  to  utter  a  word  of  remonstrance, 
before  Job  appeared  in  the  air,  borne  on  the  uplifted  arma 
of  a  dozen  men,  and  at  the  next  instant  he  was  seen  roll 
ing  down  the  steep  declivity,  with  a  velocity  that  carried 
him  to  the  water's  edge.  Springing  to  his  feet,  the  un 
daunted  changeling  once  more  waved  his  hat  in  triumph, 
and  shouted  forth  again  his  offensive  challenge.  Then 
turning,  he  launched  his  canoe  from  its. hiding  place  among 
the  adjacent  lumber,  amid  a  shower  of  stones,  and  glided 
across  the  strait ;  his  little  bark  escaping  unnoticed  in  the 
crowd  of  boats  that  were  rowing  in  all  directions.  But  hia 
progress  was  watched  by  the  uneasy  eye  of  Lionel,  who 
saw  him  land  and  disappear,  with  hasty  steps,  in  the  sileut 
streets  of  the  town. 

While  this  trifling  by-play  was  enacting,  the  great  dra 
ma  of  the  day  was  not  at  a  stand.  The  smoky  veil,  which 
clung  around  the  brow  of  the  eminence,  was  lifted  by  the 
air,  arid  sailed  heavily  away  to  the  south-west,  leaving  the 
scene  of  the  bloody  struggle  again  open  to  the  view.  Li 
onel  witnessed  the  grave  and  meaning  glances  which  the 
two  lieutenants  of  the  king  exchanged  as  they  simultane 
ously  turned  their  glasses  from  the  fatal  spot,  and,  taking 
the  one  proffered  by  Burgoyne,  he  read  their  explanation 
in  the  numbers  of  the  dead  that  lay  profusely  scattered  in 
front  of  the  redoubt.  At  this  instant,  an  officer  from  the 
field  held  an  earnest  communication  with  the  two  leaders ; 
when,  having  delivered  his  orders,  he  hastened  back  to  his 
boat,  like  one  who  felt  himself  employed  in  matters  of  life 
and  death. 

"  It  shall  be  done,  sir,"  repeated  Clinton,  as  the  other 
departed,  his  own  honest  brow  sternly  knit  under  high  mar 
tial  excitement. — "  The  artillery  have  their  orders,  and  the 
work  will  be  accomplished  without  delay." 
25 


290  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

"  This,  Major  Lincoln !"  cried  his  more  sophisticated 
companion,  "  this  is  one  of  the  trying  duties  of  the  soldier ! 
To  fight,  to  bleed,  or  even  to  die,  for  -his  prince,  is  his  hap 
py  privilege  ;  but  it  is  sometimes  his  unfortunate  lot  to  be 
come  the  instrument  of  vengeance." 

Lionel  waited  but  a  moment  for  an  explanation — the 
flaming  balls  were  soon  seen  taking  their  wide  circuit  in 
the  air,  and  carrying  their  desolation  among  the  close  and 
inflammable  roofs  of  the  opposite  town.  In  a  very  few 
minutes,  a  dense,  black  svnoke  arose  from  the  deserted 
buildings,  and  forked  flames  played  actively  along  the  heat 
ed  shingles,  as  though  rioting  in  their  unmolested  posses 
sion  of  the  place.  He  regarded  the  gathering  destruction 
in  painful  silence ;  and,  on  bending  his  looks  towards  his 
companions,  he  fancied,  notwithstanding  the  language  of 
the  other,  that  he  read  the  deepest  regret  in  the  averted 
eye  of  him,  who  had  so  unhesitatingly  uttered  the  fata' 
mandate  to  destroy. 

In  scenes  like  these  we  are  attempting  to  describe,  hours 
appear  to  be  minutes,  and  time  flies  as  imperceptibly  as  life 
slides  from  beneath  the  feet  of  age.  The  disordered  ranks  of 
the  British  had  been  arrested  at  the  base  of  the  hill,  and  were 
again  forming  under  the  eyes  of  their  leaders,  with  admi 
rable  discipline,  and  extraordinary  care.  Fresh  battalions, 
from  Boston,  marched  with  high  military  pride  into  the  line, 
and  every  thing  betokened  that  a  second  assault  was  at 
hand.  When  the  moment  of  stupid  amazement,  which 
succeeded  the  retreat  of  the  royal  troops,  had  passed,  the 
troops  and  batteries  poured  out  their  wrath  with  tenfold 
fury  on  their  enemies.  Shot  were  incessantly  glancing 
up  the  gentle  acclivity,  madly  ploughing  across  its  grassy 
surface,  while  black  and  threatening  shells  appeared  to 
hover  above  the  work,  like  the  monsters  of  the  air,  about 
to  stoop  upon  their  prey. 

Still  all  lay  quiet  and  immoveable  within  the  low  mounds 
of  earth,  as  if  none  there  had  a  stake  in  the  issue  of  the 
bloody  day.  For  a  few  moments  only,  the  tall  figure  of 
an  aged  man  was  seen  slowly  moving  along  the  summit  of 
the  ramparts  calmly  regarding  the  dispositions  of  the  Eng 
lish  general  in  the  more  distant  part  of  his  line,  and,  after 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  a  gentleman,  who  joined 


COMMON-PLACE  BOoK.  OF  PROSE.  291 

him  in  his  dangerous  lookout,  they  disappeared  together 
behind  the  grassy  banks.  Lionel  soon  detected  the  name 
of  Prescott  of  Pepperel,  passing  through  the  crowd  in  low 
murmurs,  and  his  glass  did  not  deceive  him  when  he  thought, 
in  the  smaller  of  the  two,  he  had  himself  descried  the 
graceful  person  of  the  unknown  leader  of  the  "  caucus." 

All  eyes  were  now  watching  the  advance  of  the  battal 
ions,  which  once  more  drew  nigh  the  point  of  contest.  The 
heads  of  the  columns  were  already  in  view  of  their  ene 
mies,  when  a  man  was  seen  swiftly  ascending  the  hill  from 
the  burning  town  :  he  paused  amid  the  peril,  on  the  natural 
glacis,  and  swung  his  hat  triumphantly,  and  Lionel  even, 
fancied  he  heard  the  exulting  cry,  as  he  recognised  the 
ungainly  form  of  the  simpleton,  before  it  plunged  into  the 
work. 

The  right  of  the  British  once  more  disappeared  in  the 
orchard,  and  the  columns  in  front  of  the  redoubt  again 
opened  with  all  the  imposing  exactness  of  their  high  dis 
cipline.  Their  arms  were  already  glittering  in  a  line  with 
the  green  facps  of  the  mound,  and  Lionel  heard  the  expe 
rienced  warrior  at  his  side  murmuring  to  himself — 

"  Let  him  hold  his  fire,  and  he  will  go  in  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet !" 

But  the  trial  was  too  great  for  even  ttte  practised  courage 
of  the  royal  troops.  Volley  succeeded  volley,  and  in  a  few 
moments  they  had  again  curtained  their  ranks  behind  the 
misty  screen  produced  by  their  own  fire.  Then  came  the 
terrible  flash  from  the  redoubt,  and  the  eddying  volumes 
from  the  adverse  hosts  rolled  into  one  cloud,  enveloping  the 
combatints  in  its  folds,  as  if  to  conceal  their  bloody  work 
from  the  spectators.  Twenty  times,  in  the  short  space  of 
as  many  minutes,  Major  Lincoln  fancied  he  heard  the  in 
cessant  roll  of  the  American  musketry  die  away  before  the 
heavy  and  regular  volleys  of  the  troops ;  and  then  he  thought 
the  sounds  of  the  latter  grew  more  faint,  and  were  given  at 
longer  intervals. 

The  result,  however,  was  soon  known.  The  heavy 
bank  of  smoke,  which  now  even  clung  along  the  ground, 
was  broken  in  fifty  places  ;  and  the  disordered  masses  of 
the  British  were  seen  driven  before  their  deliberate  foes  in 
wild  confusion.  The  flashing  swords  of  the  officers  in  vain 


292  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

attempted  to  arrest  the  torrent,  nor  did  the  flight  cease,  with 
many  of  the  regiments,  until  they  had  even  reached  their 
boats.  At  this  moment  a  hum  was  heard  in  Boston,  like 
the  sudden  rush  of  wind,  and  men  gazed  in  each  other's 
faces  with  undisguised  amazement.  Here  and  there  a  low1 
sound  of  exultation  escaped  some  unguarded  lip,  and  many 
an  eye  gleamed  with  a  triumph  that  could  no  longer  be 
suppressed.  Until  this  moment  the  feelings  of  Lionel  had 
vacillated  between  the  pride  of  country  and  his  military 
spirit ;  but,  losing  all  other  feelings  in  the  latter  sensation, 
he  now  looked  fiercely  about  him,  as  if  he  would  seek  the 
man  who  dare  exult  in  the  repulse  of  his  comrades.  The 
poetic  chieftain  was  still  at  his  side,  biting  his  nether  lip 
in  vexation ;  but  his  more  tried  companion  had  suddenly 
disappeared.  Another  quick  glance  fell  upon  his  missing 
form  in  the  act  of  entering  a  boat  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
Quicker  than  thought,  Lionel  was  on  the  shore,  crying,  as 
he  flew  to  the  water's  edge — 

"  Hold  !  for  God's  sake,  hold  !  remember  the  47th  is  in 
Che  field,  and  that  I  am  its  major  !" 

"  Receive  him,"  said  Clinton,  with  that  grim  satisfaction, 
with  which  men  acknowledge  a  valued  friend  in  momenta 
of  great  trial ;  "  and  then  row  for  your  lives,  or,  what  is 
of  more  value,  for  the  honour  of  the  British  name." 

The  brain  of  Lionel  whirled  as  the  boat  shot  along  its 
watery  bed,  but,  before  it  had  gained  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  he  had  time  to  consider  the  whole  of  the  appalling 
scene.  The  fire  had  spread  from  house  to  house,  and  the 
whole  village  of  Charlestown,  with  its  four  hundred  build 
ings,  was  just  bursting  into  flames.  The  air  seemed  filled 
with  whistling  balls,  as  they  hurtled  above  his  head,  and 
the  black  sides  of  the  vessels  of  war  were  vomiting  their 
sheets  of  flame  with  unwearied  industry.  Amid  this  tu 
mult,  the  English  general  and  his  companions  sprung  to  land. 
The  former  rushed  into  the  disordered  ranks,  and  by  his  pres 
ence  and  voice  recalled  the  men  of  one  regiment  to  their 
duty.  But  long  and  loud  appeals  to  their  spirit  and  their  an 
cient  "ame  were-necessary  to  restore  a  moiety  of  their  former 
confidence  to  men,  who  had  been  thus  rudely  repulsed,  and 
who  now  looked  along  their  thinned  and  exhausted  ranks, 
aaissing,  in  many  instances,  more  than  half  the  well-known 


COMMON-  LACE^  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  293 

countenances  of  their  fellows.  In  the  midst  of  the  faltering 
troops  stood  their  stern  and  unbending  chief;  but  of  all 
those  gay  and  gallant  youths,  who  followed  in  his  train  as 
he  had  departed  from  Province-House  that  morning,  not 
one  remained,  but  in  his  blood.  He  alone  seemed  undis 
turbed  in  that  disordered  crowd ;  and  his  mandates  went 
forth  as  usual,  calm  and  determined.  At  length  the  panic, 
in  some  degree,  subsided,  and  order  was  snce  more  restored, 
as  the  high-spirited  and  mortified  gentlemen  of  the  detach 
ment  regained  their  lost  authority. 

The  leaders  consulted  together,  apart,  and  the  disposi 
tions  were  immediately  renewed  for  the  assault.  Military 
show  was  no  longer  affected,  but  the  soldiers  laid  down  all 
the  useless  implements  of  their  trade,  and  many  even  cast 
aside  their  outer  garments,  under  the  warmth  of  a  broiling 
sun,  added  to  the  heat  of  the  conflagration,  which  began  to 
diffuse  itself  along  the  extremity  of  the  peninsula.  Fresh 
companies  were  placed  in  the  columns,  and  most  of  the 
troops  were  withdrawn  from  the  meadows,  leaving  merely 
a  few  skirmishers  to  amuse  the  Americans  who  lay  behind 
the  fence.  When  each  disposition  was  completed,  the  final 
signal  was  given  to  advance. 

Lionel  had  taken  post  in  his  regiment,  but,- marching  on 
the  skirt  of  tl  e  column,  he  commanded  a  view  of  most  of 
the  scene  of  battle.  In  his  front  moved  a  battalion,  re 
duced  to  a  handful  of  men  in  the  previous  assaults.  Behind 
these  came  a  party  of  the  marine  guards,  from  the  shipping, 
led  by  their  own  veteran  major ;  and  next  followed  the  de 
jected  Nesbitt  and  his  corps,  amongst  whom  Lionel  looked 
in  vain  for  the  features  of  the  good-natured  Polwarth. 
Similar  columns  marched  on  their  right  and  left,  encircling 
three  sides  of  the  redoubt  by  their  battalions. 

A  few  minutes  brought  him  in  full  view  of  that  humble 
and  unfinished  mound  of  earth,  for  the  possession  of  which 
so  much  blood  had  that  day  been  spilt  in  vain.  It  lay,  as 
before,  still  as  if  n6ne  breathed  within  its  bosom,  though 
a  terrific  row  of  dark  tubes  were  arrayed  along  its  top, 
following  the  movements  of  the  approaching  columns,  as 
the  eyes  of  the  imaginary  charmers  of  our  own  wilderness 
are  said  to  watch  their  victims  As  the  uproar  of  the  ar 
tillery  again  grew  fainter,  the  crash  of  falling  streets,  anrf 
25* 


294  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

the  appalling  sounds  of  the  conflagration,  on  their  left,  be 
came  more  audible.  Immense  volumes  of  black  smoke  is 
sued  from  the  smouldering  ruins,  and,  bellying  outward, 
fold  beyond  fold,  it  overhung  the  work  in  a  hideous  cloud, 
casting  its  gloomy  shadow  across  the  place  of  blood. 

A  strong  column  was  now  seen  ascending,  as  if  from  out 
the  burning  town,  and  the  advance  of  the  whole  became  quick 
and  spirited.  A  low  call  ran  through  the  platoons,  to  note 
the  naked  weapons  of  their  adversaries,  and  it  was  follow 
ed  by  the  cry  of  "  To  the  bayonet!  to  the  bayonet !" 

"  Hurrah  !  for  the  Royal  Irish  !"  shouted  M'Fuse,  at  the 
head  of  the  dark  column  from  the  conflagration. 

"  Hurrah  !"  echoed  a  well-known  voice  from  the  silent 
mound ;  "  let  them  come  on  to  Breed's ;  the  people  will 
teach  'em  the  law  !" 

Men  think  at  such  moments  with  the  rapidity  of  light 
ning,  and  Lionel  had  even  fancied  his  comrades  in  posses 
sion  of  the  work,  when  the  terrible  stream  of  fire  flashed 
in  the  faces  of  the  men  in  front. 

"  Push  on  with  the th,"  cried  the  veteran  major 

of  marines — "  push  on,  or  the  18th  will  get  the  honour  of 
the  day !" 

"  We  cannot,"  murmured  the  soldiers  of  the th  ; 

"  their  fire  is  too  heavy  !" 

"  Then  break,  and  let  the  marines  pass  through  you  !" 

The  feeble  battalion  melted  away,  and  the  warriors  of 
the  deep,  trained  to  conflicts  of  hand  to  hand,  sprang  for 
ward,  with  a  loud  shout,  in  their  places.  The  Americans, 
exhausted  of  their  ammunition,  now  sunk  sullenly  back,  a 
few  hurling  stones  at  their  foes,  in  desperate  indignation. 
The  cannon  of  the  British  had  been  brought  to  enfilade 
their  short  breast-work,  which  was  no  longer  tenable ;  and, 
as  the  columns  approached  closer  to  the  low  rampart,  it  be 
came  a  mutual  protection  to  the  adverse  parties. 

"  Hurrah  !  for  the  Royal  Irish !"  again  shouted  M'Fuse, 
rushing  up  the  trifling  ascent,  which  was  but  of  little  more 
than  his  own  height. 

"Hurrah!"  repeated  Pitcairn,  waving  his  sword  on 
another  angle  of  the  work — "  the  day's  our  own  !" 

One  more  sheet  of  flame  issued  out  of  the  bosom  of  the 
work,  and  all  those  brave  men,  who  had  emulated  the  ex- 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  295 

araples  of  their  officers,  were  swept  away,  as  though  • 
whirlwind  had  passed  along.  The  grenadier  gave  his  war 
cry  once  more,  before  he  pitched  headlong  among  his  ene 
mies  ;  while  Pitcrurn  fell  back  into  the  arms  of  his  own 
child.  The  cry  of  "  Forward,  47th,"  rung  through  their 
ranks,  and  in  their  turn  this  veteran  battalion  gallantly 
moulted  the. ramparts.  In  the  shallow  ditch  Lionel  pass 
ed  the  expiring  marine,  and  caught  the  dying  and  despair 
ing  look  from  his  eyes,  and  in  another  instant  he  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  his  foes.  As  company  followed 
company  into  the  defenceless  redoubt,  the  Americans  sul 
lenly  retired  by  its  rear,  keeping  the  bayonets  of  the  sol 
diers  at  bay  w  ith  clubbed  muskets  and  sinewy  arms.  When 
the  whole  issued  upon  the  open  ground,  the  husbandmen 
received  a  close  and  fatal  fire  from  the  battalions,  which 
were  now  gathering  around  them  on  three  sides.  A  scene 
of  wild  and  savage  confusion  then  succeeded  to  the  order 
of  the  fight,  and  many  fatal  blows  were  given  and  taken, 
the  melee  rendering  the  use  of  fire-arms  nearly  impossible 
for  several  minutes. 

Lionel  continued  in  advance,  pressing  on  the  footsteps 
of  the  retiring  foe,  stepping  over  many  a  lifeless  body  in 
his  difficult  progress.  Notwithstanding  the  hurry,  and  vast 
disorder  of  the  fray,  his  eye  fell  on  the  form  of  the  grace 
ful  stranger,  stretched  lifeless  on  the  parched  grass,  which 
had  greedily  drank  his  blood.  Amid  the  ferocious  cries, 
and  fiercer  passions  of  the  moment,  the  young  man  paus 
ed,  and  glanced  his  eyes  around  him,  with  an  expression 
that  said,  he  thought  the  work  of  death  should  cease.  At 
this  instant  the  trappings  of  his  attire  caught  the  glaring 
eye-balls  of  a  dying  yeoman,  who  exerted  his  wasting 
strength  to  sacrifice  one  more  worthy  victim  to  the  manes 
of  his  countrymen.  The  whole  of  the  tumultuous  scene 
vanished  from  the  senses  of  Lionel  at  the  flash  of  the  mus 
ket  of  this  man,  and  he  sunk  beneath  the  feet  of  the 
combatants,  insensible  of  further  triumph,  and  of  every 
danger. 

The  fall  of  a  single  officer,  in  such  a  contest,  was  a  cir 
cumstance  not  to  be  regarded  ;  and  regiments  passed  over 
him,  without  a  single  man  stooping  to  inquire  into  his  fate. 
When  the  Americans  had  disengaged  themselves  from  the 


296  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

troops,  they  descended  into  the  little  hollow  between  the 
two  hills,  swiftly,  and  like  a  disordered  crowd,  bearing  off 
most  of  their  wounded,  and  leaving  but  few  prisoners  in 
the  hands  of  their  foes.  The  formation  of  the  ground  fa 
voured  their  retreat,  as  hundreds  of  bullets  whistled  harm 
lessly  above  their  heads  ;  and,  by  the  time  they  gained  the 
acclivity  of  Bunker,  distance  was  added  to  their  security. 
Finding  the  field  lost,  the  men  at  the  fence  broke  away  in 
a  body  from  their  position,  and  abandoned  the  meadows  ; 
the  whole  moving  in  confused  masses  behind  the  crest  of 
the  adjacent  height.  The  shouting  soldiery  followed  in 
their  footsteps,  pouring  in  fruitless  and  distant  volleys  ;  but, 
on  the  summit  of  Bunker,  their  tired  platoons  were  halted, 
and  they  beheld  the  throng  move  fearlessly  through  the 
tremendous  fire  that  enfiladed  the  low  pass,  as  little  injured 
as  though  most  of  them  bore  charmed  lives. 

The  day  was  now  drawing  to  a  close.  With  the  disap 
pearance  of  their  enemies,  the  ships  and  batteries  ceased 
their  cannonade  ;  and,  presently,  not  a  musket  was  heard 
in  that  place,  where  so  fierce  a  contest  had  so  long  raged. 
The  troops  commenced  fortifying  the  outward  eminence, 
on  which  they  rested,  in  order  to  maintain  their  barren 
conquest ;  and  nothing  further  remained  for  the  achieve 
ment  of  the  royal  lieutenants,  but  to  go  and  mourn  over 
their  victory. 


Autumn  and  Spring. — PAULDING. 

THE  Summer  passed  away,  and  Autumn  began  to 
hang  out  his  many-coloured  flag  upon  the  trees,  that,  smit 
ten  by  the  nightly  frosts,  every  morning  exhibited  less  of 
the  green,  and  more  of  the  gaudy  hues,  that  mark  the 
waning  year  in  our  western  climate.  The  farmers  of  El- 
singburgh  were  out  in  their  fields,  bright  and  early,  gath 
ering  in  the  fruits  of  their  spring  and  summer's  labours, 
or  busily  employed  in  making  their  cider ;  while  the  ur 
chins  passed  their  holydays  in  gathering  nuts  to  crack  by 
the  winter's  fire.  The  little  quails  began  to  whistle  their 
autumnal  notes ;  the  grasshopper,  having  had  his  season 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF    PUOSE.  237 

of  idle  sport  and  chirping  jollity,  began  now  to  pay  the 
penalty  of  his  thoughtless  improvidence,  and  might  be  seen 
sunning  himself  at  mid-day,  in  melancholy  silence,  as  if 
anticipating  the  period  when  his  short  and  merry  race 
would  be  run.  Flocks  of  robins  were  passing  to  the  south, 
to  seek  a  more  genial  air ;  the  sober  cattle  began  to  assume 
their  rough,  wintry  coat,  and  to  put  on  that  desperate  ap 
pearance  of  ennui,  with  which  all  nature  salutes  the  ap 
proach  of  winter.  The  little  blue-bird  alone,  the  last  to 
leave  us,  and  the  first  to  return  in  the  spring,  sometimes 
poured  out  his  pensive  note,  as  if  bidding  farewell  to  the 
nest  where  it  had  reared  its  young. 


Now  the  laughing,  jolly  Spring  began  sometimes  to  show 
her  buxom  face  in  the  bright  morning  ;  but  ever  and  anon, 
meeting  the  angry  frown  of  Winter,  loath  to  resign  his  rough 
sway  over  the  wide  realm  of  nature,  she  would  retire  again 
into  her  southern  bower.  Yet,  though  her  visits  were  but 
short,  her  very  look  seemed  to  exercise  a  magic  influence. 
The  buds  began  slowly  to  expand  their  close  winter  folds  ; 
the  dark  and  melancholy  woods  to  assume  an  almost  im 
perceptible  purple  tint ;  and  here  and  there  a  little  chirp 
ing  blue-bird  hopped  about  the  orchards  of  Elsingburgh. 
Strips  of  fresh  green  appeared  along  the  brooks,  now  re 
leased  from  their  icy  fetters  ;  and  nests  of  little  variegated 
flowers,  nameless,  yet  richly  deserving  a  name,  sprung  up 
in  the  sheltered  recesses  of  the  leafless  woods.  By  and 
by,  the  shad,  the  harbinger  at  once  of  spring  and  plenty, 
came  up  the  river  before  the  mild  southern  breeze  ;  the 
ruddy  blossoms  of  the  peach  tree  exhibited  their  gorgeous 
pageantry ;  the  little  lambs  appeared  frisking  and  gambol 
ing  about  the  sedate  mother ;  young,  innocent  calves  be 
gan  their  first  bleatings  ;  the  cackling  hen  announced  her 
daily  feat  in  the  barn-yard  with  clamorous  astonishment; 
every  day  added  to  the  appearance  of  that  active  vegetable 
and  animal  life,  which  nature  presents  in  the  progress  of 
the  genial  spring  ;  and,  finally,  the  flowers,  the  zephyrs,  and 
the  warblers,  and  the  maiden's  rosy  cheeks,  announced  to 
the  eye,  the  ear,  the  senses,  the  fancy,  and  the  heart,  the 
return  and  the  stay  of  the  veinal  year. 


298  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  I  ROSE. 


The  Storm-Ship. — IRVING. 

In  the  golden  age  of  the  province  of  the  New  Nether 
lands,  when  it  was  under  the  sway  of  Wouter  VanTwiller 
otherwise  called  the  Doubter,  the  people  of  the  Manhafr 
toes  were  alarmed,  one  sultry  afternoon,  just  about  the  time 
of  the  summer  solstice,  by  a  tremendous  storm  of  thunder 
and  lightning.  The  rain  descended  in  such  torrents  as  ab 
solutely  to  spatter  up  and  smoke  along  the  ground.  It  seem 
ed  as  if  the  thunder  rattled  and  rolled  over  the  very  roofs 
of  the  houses  ;  the  lightning  was  seen  to  play  about  the 
church  of  St.  Nicholas,  and  to  strive  three  times,  in  vain, 
to  strike  its  weathercock.  Garret  Van  Home's  new  chim 
ney  was  split  almost  from  top  to  bottom ;  and  Doffue  Mil- 
deberger  was  struck  speechless  from  his  bald-faced  mare, 
just  as  he  was  riding  into  town.  In  a  word,  it  was  one  of 
those  unparalleled  storms,  that  only  happen  once  within 
the  memory  of  that  venerable  personage  known  in  all  towns 
by  the  appellation  of  "  the  oldest  inhabitant." 

Great  was  the  terror  of  the  good  old  women  of  the  Man- 
hattoes.  They  gathered  their  children  together,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  cellars ;  after  having  hung  a  shoe  on  the  iron 
point  of  every  bed-post,  lest  it  should  attract  the  lightning. 
At  length  the  storm  abated  ;  the  thunder  sunk  into  a  growl, 
and  the  setting  sun,  breaking  from  under  the  fringed  bor 
ders  of  the  clouds,  made  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  to  gleam 
like  a  sea  of  molten  gold. 

The  word  was  given  from  the  fort  that  a  ship  was  stand 
ing  up  the  bay.  It  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  street 
to  street,  and  soon  put  the  little  capital  in  a  bustle.  The 
arrival  of  a  ship,  in  those  early  times  of  the  settlement, 
was  an  event  of  vast  importance  to  the  inhabitants.  It 
brought  them  news  from  the  old  world,  from  the  land  of 
their  birth,  from  which  4hey  were  so  completely  severed  : 
to  the  yearly  ship,  too,  they  looked  for  their  supply  of  lux 
uries,  of  finery,  of  comforts,  and  almost  of  necessaries. 
The  good  vrouw  could  not  have  her  new  cap  nor  new 
gown  until  the  arrival  of  the  ship  ;  the  artist  waited  for  it 
for  his  tools,  the  burgomaster  for  his  pipe  and  his  supply 
of  Hollands,  the  schcolboy  for  his  top  and  marbles,  and  tha 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  29i 

.ordly  landholder  for  the  bricks  with  which  he  was  to  build 
his  new  mansion.  Thus  every  one,  rich  and  poor,  great 
and  small,  looked  out  for  the  arrival  of  the  ship.  It  was 
the  great  yearly  event  of  the  town  of  New  Amsterdam  ; 
and,  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other,  the  ship — the 
ship- — the.  ship — was  the  continual  topic  of  conversation. 

The  news  from  the  fort,  therefore,  brought  all  the  popu 
lace  down  to  the  battery,  to  behold  the  wished-for  sight. 
It  was  not  exactly  the  time  when  she  had  been  expected 
to  arrive,  and  the  circumstance  was  a  matter  of  some  spec 
ulation.  Many  were  the  groups  collected  about  the  bat 
tery.  Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  burgomaster,  of 
slow  and  pompous  gravity,  giving  his  opinion  with  great 
confidence  to  a  crowd  of  old  women  and  idle  boys.  At 
another  place  was  a  knot  of  old,  weather-beaten  fellows, 
who  had  been  seamen  or  fishermen  in  their  times,  and  were 
great  authorities  on  such  occasions  ;  these  gave  different 
opinions,  and  caused  great  disputes  among  their  several 
adherents  :  but  the  man  most  looked  up  to,  and  followed 
and  watched  by  the  crowd,  was  Hans  Van  Pelt,  an  old 
Dutch  sea  captain  retired  from  service,  the  nautical  oracle 
of  the  place.  He  reconnoitred  the  ship  through  an  ancient 
telescope,  covered  with  tarry  canvass,  hummed  a  Dutch 
tune  to  himself,  and  said  nothing.  A  hum,  however,  from 
Hans  Van  Pelt,  had  always  more  weight  with  the  public, 
than  a  speech  from  another  man. 

In  the  mean  time  the  ship  became  more  distinct  to  the 
naked  eye  :  she  was  a  stout,  round,  Dutch  built  vessel, 
with  high  bow  and  poop,  and  bearing  Dutch  colours.  The 
evening  sun  gilded  her  bellying  canvass,  as  she  came  riding 
over  the  long  waving  billows'  The  sentinel,  who  had  given 
notice  of  her  approach,  declared,  that  he  first  got  sight  of 
her  when  she  was  in  the  centre  of  the  bay ;  and  that  she 
broke  suddenly  on  his  sight,  just  as  if  she  had  come  out 
of  the  bosom  of  the  black  thun^or-cloud.  The  bystanders 
looked  at  Hans  Van  Pelt,  to  see  what  he  would  say  to  this 
report :  Hans  Van  Pelt  screwed  his  mouth  closer  together, 
and  said  nothing  ;  upon  which  some  shook  their  heads,  and 
others  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

The  ship  was  now  repeatedly  hailed,  but  made  nj  reply, 
tnd,  passing  by  the  fort,  stood  on  up  the  Hudson.  A  gun 


300  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF   PROSE. 

was  brought  to  bear  on  her,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  load 
ed  and  fired  by  Hans  Van  Pelt,  the  garrison  not  being  ex 
pert  in  artillery.  The  shot  seemed  absolutely  to  pasj 
through  the  ship,  and  to  skip  along  the  water  on  the  other 
side  ;  but  no  notice  was  taken  of  it !  What  was  strange, 
she  had  all  her  sails  set,  and  sailed  right  against  wind  and 
tide,  which  were  both  down  the'  river.  Upon  this  Hans 
Van  Pelt,  who  was  likewise  harbour-master,  ordered  his 
boat,  and  set  off  to  board  her  ;  but,  after  rowing  two  or 
three  hours,  he  returned  without  success.  Sometimes  he 
would  get  within  one  or  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and  then, 
in  a  twinkling,  she  would  be  half  a  mile  off.  Some  said  it 
'  was  because  his  oars-men,  who  were  rather  pursy  and  short- 
winded,  stopped  every  now  and  then  to  take  breath,  and 
spit  on  their  hands  ;  but  this,  it  is  probable,  was  a  mere 
scandal.  He  got  near  enough,  however,  to  see  the  crew ; 
who  were  all  dressed  in  the  Dutch  style,  the  officers  in 
doublets  and  high  hats  and  feathers  :  not  a  word  was  spoken 
by  any  one  on  board  ;  ftiey  stood  as  motionless  as  so  many 
statues,  and  the  ship  seemed  as  if  left  to  her  own  govern 
ment.  Thus  she  kept  on,  away  up  the  river,  lessening 
and  lessening  in  the  evening  sunshine,  until  she  faded 
from  sight,  like  a  little  white  cloud  melting  away  iu  the 
summer  sky. 

The  appearance  of  this  ship  threw  the  governor  into  one 
of  the  deepest  doubts  that  ever  beset  him  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  administration.  Fears  were  entertained  for 
the  security  of  the  infant  settlements  on  the  river,  lest  this 
might  be  an  enemy's  ship  in  disguise,  sent  to  take  posses 
sion.  The  governor  called  together  his  council  repeatedly, 
to  assist  him  with  their  conjectures.  He  sat  in  his  chair 
of  state,  built  of  timber  from  the  sacred  forest  of  the  Hague, 
and  smoking  his  long  jasmin  pipe,  and  listened  to  all  th*t 
his  counsellors  had  to  say  on  a  subject  about  which  they 
knew  nothing ;  but,  in  spite  of  all  the  conjecturing  of 
the  sagest  and  oldest  heads,  the  governor  still  continued 
to  doubt. 

Messengers  were  despatched  to  different  places  on  the 
river  ;  but  they  returned  without  any  tidings — the  ship  had 
made  no  port.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  elapsed, 
but  she  never  returned  down  the  Hudson.  As,  however, 


L 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  301 

ihe  council  seemed  solicitous  for  intelligence,  they  had  i- 
in  Abundance.  The  captains  of  the  sloops  seldom  arrived 
without  bringing  some  report  of  having  seen  the  strange 
ship  at  different  parts  of  the  river ;  sometimes  near  the 
Palisadoes,  sometimes  off  Croton  Point,  and  sometimes  in 
the  Highlands  ;  but  she  never  was  reported  as  having  been 
seen  above  the  Highlands.  The  crews  of  the  sloops,  it  is 
true,  generally  differed  among  themselves  in  their  accounts 
of  these  apparitions  ;  but  that  may  have  arisen  from  the 
uncertain  situations  in  which  they  saw  her.  Sometimes 
it  was  by  the  flashes  of  the  thunder-storm  lighting  up  a 
pitchy  night,  and  giving  glimpses  of  her  careering  across 
Tappaan  Zee,  or  the  wide  waste  of  Haverstraw  Bay.  At 
one  moment  she  would  appear  close  upon  them,  as  if  like 
ly  to  run  them  down,  and  would  throw  them  into  great 
bustle  and  alarm  ;  but  the  next  flash  would  show  her  far 
off,  always  sailing  against  the  wind.  Sometimes,  in  quiet 
moonlight  nights,  she  would  be  seen  under  some  high  bluff 
of  the  Highlands,  all  in  deep  shadow,  excepting  her  top 
sails  glittering  in  the  moonbeams  ;  by  the  time,  however, 
that  the  voyagers  would  reach  the  place,  there  would  be 
no  ship  to  be  seen ;  and,  when  they  had  passed  on  for  some 
distance,  and  looked  back,  behold  !  there  she  was  again, 
with  her  top-sails  in  the  moonshine  !  Her  appearance  was 
always  just  after,  or  just  before,  or  just  in  the  midst  of  un 
ruly  weather  ;  and  she  was  known  by  all  the  skippers 
and  voyagers  of  the  Hudson  by  the  name  of  "  the  storm- 
ship." 

These  reports  perplexed  the  governor  and  his  council 
more  than  ever  ;  and  it  would  be  endless  to  repeat  the  con 
jectures  and  opinions  that  were  uttered  on  the  subject. 
Some  quoted  cases  in  point,  of  ships  seen  off  the  coast  of 
New  England,  navigated  by  witches  and  goblins.  Old 
Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  had  been  more  than  once  to  the  Dutch 
colony  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  insisted  that  this  must 
bj  the  flying  Dutchman,  which  had  so  long  haunted  Table 
Bay;  but,  being  unable  to  make  port,  had  now  sought  anoth 
er  harbour.  Others  suggested,  that,  if  it  really  was  a  super 
natural  apparition,  as  there  was  every  natural  reason  to  be 
lieve,  it  might  be  Hendrick  Hudson,  and  his  crew  of  the 
Halfmoon  ;  who,  it  was  well  known,  had  once  run  aground 
26 


802  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  op  PROSE. 

in  the  upper  part  of  the  river,  in  seeking  a  north-  west  pas 
sage  to  China.  Thu  opinion  had  very  little  \veightwith  die 
governor,  but  it  passed  current  out  of  doors ;  for,  indeed 
it  had  already  been  reported,  that  Hcndrick  Hudson  and 
his  crew  haunted  the  Kaatskill  Mountain  ;  and  it  appear 
ed  very  reasonable  to  suppose,  that  his  ship  might  infest 
the  river  where  the  enterprise  was  baflled,  or  that  it  might 
hea*-  the  shadowy  crew  to  their  periodical  revels  in  the 
mountain. 

Other  events  occurred  to  occupy  the  thoughts  and  doubts 
f  the  sage  Wouter  and  his  council,  and  the  storm-ship 
Ceased  to  be  a  subject  of  deliberation  at  the  board.  It  con 
tinued,  however,  to  be  a  matter  of  popular  belief  and  mar 
vellous  anecdote  through  the  whole  *ime  of  the  Dutch  gov 
ernment,  and  particularly  just  before  the  capture  of  New 
Amsterdam,  and  the  subjugation  of  the  province  by  the 
English  squadron.  About  that  time  the  storm-ship  was 
repeatedly  seen  in  the  Tappaan  Zee,  and  about  Weehawk, 
and  even  down  aa  for  a9  Hoboken ;  and  her  appearance 
was  supposed  to  be  ominous  of  the  approaching  squall  in 
public  affairs,  and  the  downfall  of  Dutch  domination. 

Since  that  time  vie  have  no  authentic  accounts  of  her  , 
though  it  is  said  she  still  haunts  the  Highlands,  and  cruises 
about  Point-no-point.  People,  who  live  along  the  river, 
insist  that  they  someames  see  her  in  summer  moonlight; 
and  that,  in  a  deep,  still  midnight,  they  have  heard  the  chant 
of  her  crew,  as  if  heaving  the  lead  ;  but  sights  and  sounds 
are  so  deceptive  along  the  mountainous  shores,  and  about 
the  wide  bays  and  long  reaches  of  this  great  river,  that  I 
confess  I  have  very  strong  doubts  upon  the  subject. 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  strange  things  have  been 
seen  in  these  Highlands  in  storms,  which  are  considered 
as  connected  with  the  old  story  of  the- ship.  The  captains 
of  the  river  craft  talk  of  a  little  bulbous-bottomed  Dutch 
goblin,  in  trunk  hose  and  sugar-loafed  hat.  with  a  speaking 
trumpet  in  his  hand,  which  they  say  keeps  about  the  Dun- 
derberg.*  They  declare  that  they  have  heard  him,  in 
stormy  weather,  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil,  giving  orders 
ia  low  Dutch  for  the  piping  up  of  a  fresh  gust  of  wind,  or 


*  That  is,  the  '•'  Thunder  Mountain,"  so  culled  from  its  echoes 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  303 

the  rattling  off  of  another  thunder-clap  ;  that  sometimes  he 
has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a  crew  of  little  imps  in  broad 
breeches  and  short  doublets ;  tumbling  head  over  heels  in 
the  rack  and  mist,  and  playing  a  thousand  gambols  in  the 
air ;  or  buzzing  like  a  swarm  of  flies  about  Antony's 
Noso  ;  and  that,  at  such  times,  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  storm 
was  always  greatest.  One  time  a  sloop,  in  passing  by  the 
Dunderberg,  was  overtaken  by  a  thunder-gust,  that  came 
scouring  round  the  mountain,  and  seemed  to  burst  just 
over  the  vessel.  Though  tight  and  well  ballasted,  yet  she 
laboured  dreadfully,  until  the  water  came  over  the  gun 
wale.  All  the  crew  were  amazed,  vvhen  it  was  discovered 
that  there  was  a  little  white  sugar-loaf  hat  on  the  mast 
head,  which  was  known  at  once  to  be  the  hat  of  the  Heer 
of  the  Dunderberg.  Nobody,  however,  dared  to  climb  to 
the  mast-head,  and  get  rid  of  this  terrible  hat.  The  sloop 
continued  labouring  and  rocking,  as  if  she  would  have  roll 
ed  her  mast  overboard.  She  seemed  in  continual  danger, 
either  of  upsetting  or  of  running  on  shore.  In  this  way 
she  drove  quite  through  the  Highlands,  until  she  had  pass 
ed  Pollopol's  Island,  where,  it  is  said,  the  jurisdiction  of 
the  Dunderberg  potentate  ceases.  No  sooner  had  she  pass 
ed  this  bourn,  than  the  little  hat,  all  at  once,  spun  up  into 
the  air  like  a  top  ;  whirled  up  all  the  clouds  into  a  vortex, 
and  hurried  them  back  to  the  summit  of  the  Dunderberg  ; 
while  the  sloop  righted  herself,  and  sailed  on  as  quietly  as 
if  in  a  mill-pond.  Nothing  saved  her  from  utter  wreck 
but  the  fortunate  circumstance  of  having  a  horse-shoe  nail 
ed  against  the  mast, — a  wise  precaution  against  evil  spirits, 
which  has  since  been  adopted  by  all  the  Dutch  captains 
that  navigate  this  haunted  river. 

There  is  another  story  told  of  this  foul-weather  urchin, 
oy  Skipper  Daniel  Ouslesticker,  of  Fish  Hill,  who  was  nev 
er  known  to  tell  a  lie.  He  declared,  thai,  in  a  severe 
squall,  he  saw  him  seated  astride  of  his  bowsprit,  riding  the 
sloop  ashore,  full  butt  against  Antony's  Nose,  and  that  he 
was  exorcised  by  Dominie  Van  Gieson,  of  Esopus,  who 
happened  to  be  on  board,  and  who  sung  the  hymn  of  St. 
Nicholas ;  whereupon  the  goblin  threw  himself  up  in  the 
air  l)ke  a  ball,  and  went  off  in  a  whirlwind,  carrying  away 
With  him  the  night-cap  of  the  Dominie's  wife  ;  which  was 


304  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

discovered  the  next  Sunday  morning  hanging  on  the  wea 
ther-cock  of  Esopus"  church  steeple,  at  least  forty  mile* 
off!  After  several  events  of  this  kind  had  taken  place, 
the  regular  skippers  of  the  river,  for  a  long  time,  did  not 
venture  to  pass  the  Dunderberg,  without  lowering  their 
peaks,  out  of  homage  to  the  Heer  of  the  mountain ;  and  it 
was  observed  that  all  such  as  paid  this  tribute  of  respect 
were  suffered  to  pass  unmolested.* 


Jlnecdote  of  James  Otis. — J.  ADAMS. 

OTIS  belonged  to  a  club  who  met  on  evenings;  of 
which  club  William  Molineuxt  was  a  member.  Moly- 
neux  had  a  petition  before  the  legislature,  which  did  not 
succeed  to  his  wishes,  and  he  became  for  several  even 
ings  sour,  and  wearied  the  company  with  his  complaints  of 
services,  losses,  sacrifices,  &,c.,  and  said — "  That  a  man 
who  has  behaved  as  I  have  should  be  treated  as  I  am  is 


*  Among  the  superstitions  which  prevailed  in  the  colonies,  during 
the  early  times  of  the  settlements,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  singular 
one  about  phantom  ships.  The  superstitious  fancies  of  men  are  always 
apt  to  turn  upon  those  objects  which  concern  their  daily  occupations. 
The  solitary  ship,  which,  from  year  to  year,  came  like  a  raven  in  the 
wilderness,  bringing  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  settlement  the  comforts  of 
life  from  the  world  from  which  they  were  cut  off,  was  apt  to  be  present 
to  their  dreams,  whether  sleeping  or  waking.  The  accidental  sight 
from  shore  of  a  sail  gliding  along  the  horizon  in  those,  its  yet,  lonely 
seas,  was  apt  to  be  a  matter  of  much  talk  and  speculation.  There  is 
mention  made  in  one  of  the  early  Xew  England  writers,  of  a  ship  uav 
Seated  by  witches,  with  a  great  horse  that  stood  by  the  mainmast.  I 
have  met  with  another  story,  somewhere,  of  a  ship  that  drove  on  shore, 
in  fair,  sunny,  tranquil  weather,  with  sails  all  set,  and  a  table  spread 
in  the  cabin,  as  if  to  regale  a  number  of  guests,  yet  not.  a  living  being 
on  board.  These  phantom  ships  always  sailed  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 
or  ploughed  their  way  with  great  velocity,  making  the  smooth  sea  foam 
before  their  bows,  when  not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring. 

Moore  has  finely  wrought  up  one  of  these  legends  of  the  sea  in:o  a 
little  tale,  which,  within  a  small  compass,  contains  the  very  essence  of 
this  species  of  supernatural  fiction.  I  allude  to  his  !?pectre-Ship  bound 
to  Deadman's  Isle. 

t  Mr  Molineux  was  a  merchant,  but  much  more  of  a  sportsman  and  a 
ban  riYant,  than  a  man  of  business.  His  sentiments  were  warmly  in  fa 
vour  of  his  country,  and,  though  often  a  companion  of  the  English 
officers,  he  was  yet  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  the  leading  patriot* 
of  the  day. — Tnoou. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  305 

intolerable!"  Otis  had  slid  nothing;  but  the  company 
were  disgusted  and  out  of  patience,  when  Otis  rose  from 
his  seat,  and  said — "  Come,  come,  Will,  quit  this  subject, 
and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves.  I  also  have  a  list  of  grievan 
ces  ;  will  you  hear  it  ?"  The  club  expected  some  fun,  and 
all  cried  out,  "  Ay  !  ay  !  let  us  hear  your  list." 

"  Well,  then,  Will :  in  the  first  place,  I  resigned  the 
office  of  advocate-general,  which  I  held  from  the  crown, 
that  produced  me — how  much  do  you  think  ?"  "  A  great 
deal,  no  doubt,"  said  Molineux.  "  Shall  we  say  two 
hundred  sterling  a  year  ?  "  "  Ay,  more,  I  believe,"  said 
Molineux.  "  Well,  let  it  be  two  hundred ;  that,  for  ten 
years,  is  two  thousand. 

"  In  the  next  place,  I  have  been  obliged  to  relinquish 
the  greatest  part  of  my  business  at  the  bar.  Will  you  set 
that  at  two  hundred  more  ?"  "  Oh !  I  believe  it  much 
more  than  that."  "  Well,  let  it  be  two  hundred  ;  this,  for 
ten  years,  is  two  thousand  more.  You  allow,  then,  I  have 
lost  four  thousand  pounds  sterling."  "  Ay,  and  much  more 
too,"  said  Molineux. 

"  In  the  next  place,  I  have  lost  an  hundred  friends ; 
among  whom  were  the  men  of  the  first  rank,  fortune  and 
power  in  the  province.  At  what  price  will  you  estimate 
them  :"  "  At  nothing,"  said  Molineux  ;  "  you  are  better 
without  them,  than  with  them."  A  loud  lavgh.  "  Be 
it  so,"  said  Otis. 

"  In  the  next  place,  I  have  made  a  thousand  enemies, 
among  whom  are  the  government  of  the  province  and  the 
nation.  What  do  you  think  of  this  item  ?"  "  That  is  as 
it  may  happen,"  said  Molineux. 

"  In  the  next  place,  you  know,  I  love  pleasure ;  but  I 
have  renounced  all  amusement  for  teji  years.  What  is 
that  worth  to  a  man  of  pleasure  ?"  "  No  great  matter," 
said  Molineux  ;  "  you  have  made  politics  your  amuse 
ment."  A  hearty  laugh. 

"  In  the  next  place,  I  have  ruined  as  fine  health,  and  is 
pood  a  constitution  of  body,  as  nature  ever  gave  to  man." 
"  This  is  melancholy  indeed,"  said  Molineux  ;  "  there  is 
nothing  to  be  said  on  that  point." 

"  Once  more,"  said  Otis,  holding  his  head  down  before 
Molineux  ;  "  look  upon  this  head  !"  (where  was  a  scar,  in 
26* 


306  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

which  a  man  might  bury  his  finger  :*)  "  what  do  yon 
think  of  this  ?  and,  what  is  worse,  my  friends  think  I 
have  a  monstrous  crack  in  rny  skull." 

This  made  all  the  company  very  grave,  and  look  very 
solemn.  But  Otis,  setting  up  a  laugh,  and  with  a  gay 
countenance,  said  to  Molineux — "  Now,  Willy,  my  ad 
vice  to  you  is,  to  say  no  more  about  your  grievances  ;  for 
you  and  I  had  better  put  up  our  accounts  of  profit  and  loss 
m  our  pockets,  and  say  no  more  about  them,  lest  the  world 
should  laugh  at  us." 

This  whimsical  dialogue  put  ail  the  company,  and  Moli- 
aeux  himself,  into  good  humour,  and  they  passed  the  rest 
of  the  evening  in  joyous  conviviality. 


Interesting  Passage  in  the  Life  of  James  Otis. — 

TUDOR. 

OTIS  had  long  been  so  conspicuous  as  a  leader  of  the 
patriotic  party,  his  power  of  exciting  public  feeling  was  sc 
irresistible,  his  opposition  to  the  administration  was  so  bold 
and  vehement,  his  detestation  against  those  who  were 
bringing  ruin  on  the  country  was  so  open  and  mortifying, 
that  secret  representations  had  long  been  making  to  render 
him  particularly  obnoxious  to  the  ministry,  and  to  stimulate 
them  to  arrest  and  try  him  for  treason.  At  length,  in  the 
course  of  this  summer,  copies  of  several  of  the  letters  of 
Governor  Bernard,  and  of  the  commissioners,  filled  with 
insinuations;  and  even  charges  of  a  treasonable  nature, 
were  procured  at  the  public  offices  in  England,  and  trans 
mitted  to  him  ;  leaving  no  doubt,  that,  if  these  persons  had 
ventured  on  such  a  crimination  in  official  letters,  they  had 
gone  much  further  in  their  private  correspondence. 

He  was  stung  to  madness  by  the  discovery  and  proofs 
of  these  malignant  calumnies,  and  this  secret  treachery. 
Agitated  as  he  was  by  the  actual  and  impending  evils,  that 
threatened  the  whole  country,  and  that  were  more  espe- 


*  The  manner  in  which  he  receive -1  this  wound  is  related  in  the  fnl 
lowing  extract.— ED. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  307 

dally  directed,  at  this  period,  against  his  own  province,  and 
Ins  own  town  ;  penetrated  with  anxious  responsibility  for 
the  expediency  of  those  measures  of  opposition,  of  which 
he  was  one  of  the  chief  advisers,  and  had  long  been  the 
ostensible  leader  ;  these  attempts  to  destroy  his  character, 
if  not  his  life,  excited  the  deepest  indignation.  In  defend 
ing  the  cause  of  the  colonies,  he  had  looked  forward  to  the 
time  when  justice  would  be  done  them,  and  when  he  should 
derive  advantage  and  honour  for  all  his  exertions  and  sac 
rifices.  He  was  not  acting  as  a  demagogue,  nor  as  a  rev 
olutionist.  He  was  proud  of  his  rank  in  society ;  and  in 
opposing  the  ministerial  schemes  he  still  felt  loyalty  to 
wards  the  sovereign,  and  affection  for  England  ;  and  longed 
for  the  period,  when  he  might  give  proofs  of  both,  not  in 
opposing,  but  in  supporting  the  views  of  government ; 
while,  at  this  very  time,  he  found  that  the  crown  officers 
had  been  assiduously  labouring  to  blast  his  reputation,  and 
endeavouring  to  have  him-  torn  from  his  home,  to  undergo 
imprisonment  and  persecution  in  the  mother  country.  With 
the  proofs  of  their  conduct  in  his  possession,  he  could  n< 
longer  restrain  himself,  but  hurled  his  defiance  and  con< 
tempt  in  the  following  notice.* 

"  Advertisement.  Whereas  I  have  full  evidence,  that 
Henry  Hutton,  Charles  Paxton,  William  Burch,  and 
John  Robinson,^  Esquires,  have  frequently  and  lately 
treated  the  characters  of  all  true  North  Americans  in  a 
manner  that  is  not  to  be  endured,  by  privately  and  public 
ly  representing  them  as  traitors  and  rebels,  and  in  a  general 
combination  to  revolt  from  Great  Britain  ;  and  whereas  the 
said  Henry,  Charles,  William  and  John,  without  the  least 
provocation  or  colour,  have  represented  me  by  name,  as 
inimical  to  the  rights  of  the  crown,  and  disaffected  to  his 
majesty,  to  whom  I  annually  swear,  and  am  determined 
at  all  events  to  bear  true  and  faithful  allegiance  ;  for  all 
which  general  as  well  as  personal  abuse  and  insult,  satis 
faction  has  been  personally  demanded,  due  warning  given, 
but  no  sufficient  answer  obtained  ;  these  are  humbly  to 

*  Boston  Gazette,  September  4th,  1769. 

f  These  were  the  commissioners  of  the  customs. 


308  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

desire  the  lords  commissioners  of  his  majesty's  treasury, 
his  principal  secretaries  of  state,  particularly  my  lord 
Hillsborough,  the  board  of  trade,  and  all  others  whom  it 
may  concern,  or  who  may  condescend  to  read  this,  to  pay 
no  kind  of  regard  to  any  of  the  abusive  representations  of 
me  or  my  country,  that  may  be  transmitted  by  the  said 
Henry,  Charles,  William  and  John,  or  their  confederates ; 
for  they  are  no  more  worthy  of  credit,  than  those  of  Sir 
Francis  Bernard,  of  Nettleham,  Bart.,  or  any  of  his  cabal ; 
which  cabal  may  be  well  known,  from  the  papers  in  the 
house  of  commons,  and  at  every  great  office  in  England." 

JAMES  OTIS. 

There  were  some  further  documents  inserted  in  the  same 
Gazette,  such  as  a  correspondence  with  the  collector,  and 
some  extracts  from  the  letters  of  these  officers  to  the  treas 
ury  and  board  of  trade  in  England. 

The  next  evening,  about  seven  o'clock,  Mr.  Otis  went 
to  the  British  coffee-house,  where  Mr.  Robinson,  one  of  the 
commissioners,  was  sitting,  as  also  a  number  of  army,  navy, 
and  revenue  officers.  As  soon  as  he  came  in,  an  alterca 
tion  took  place,  which  soon  terminated  in  Robinson's  strik 
ing  him  with  a  cane,  which  was  returned  with  a  weapon 
of  the  same  kind.  Great  confusion  tVien  ensued.  The 
lights  were  extinguished,  and  Otis,  without  a  friend,  was 
surrounded  by  the  adherents  of  Robinson.  A  young  man, 
by  the  name  of  Gridley,  passing  by,  very  boldly  en- 
^ered  the  coffee-house  to  take  the  part  of  Otis  against  so 
many  foes ;  but  he  was  also  assaulted,  beaten,  and  turned 
out  of  the  house.  After  some  time  the  combatants  were 
separated,  Robinson  retreated  by  a  back  passage,  and  Otis 
was  led  home  wounded  and  bleeding. 

This  affair  naturally  excited  much  attention.  Various 
and  contradictory  statements  were  given  in  the  newspapers 
respecting  it.  It  was  said,  that  this  intentional  assault  was 
the  result  of  a  meditated  plan  of  assassination.  Five  01 
six  bludgeons  and  one  scabbard  were  found  on  the  floor 
after  the  struggle.  Otis  received  a  deep  wound  on  the 
head,  which  the  surgeons,  Doctors  Perkins  and  Lloyd,  tes 
tified  must  have  been  given  by  a  sharp  instrument.  The 
accusation  of  a  preconcerted  intention  to  murder,  is  doubt- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  309 

less  unfounded ;  but,  from  all  the  evidence  in  the  case,  it 
is  plain,  that  it  was  a  brutal  and  cowardly  assault,  in  which 
several  persons  took  part,  with  a  disposition,  that,  in  the  fury 
of  the  moment,  sought  to  disable  this  great  patriot,  whom 
they  so  rancorously  hated.  If  such  was  their  purpose,  it 
to  a  considerable  degree  succeeded. 

The  natural  indignation  that  was  roused  against  the  au 
thors  of  this  ruffian- like  attack,  the  animosity  that  existed 
towards  the  revenue  officers,  for  their  insolent  and  oppres 
sive  conduct ;  the  keen  feelings  natural  to  a  state  of  violent 
political  excitement;  the  sympathy  and  admiration  that  were 
cherished  for  the  liberal  character,  powerful  talents  and 
efficient  services  of  the  leading  patriot  of  his  day, — all  con 
spired  to  make  the  public  give  this  transaction  the  odium 
of  a  scheme  of  assassination.  Pity  for  the  sufferer  made 
them  also  impute  the  impairment  of  his  reason  to  this  event 
exclusively.  It  is  not,  however,  necessary  to  believe,  that 
an  assassination  had  been  planned,  in  order  to  cover  the 
perpetrators  of  this  barbarous  assault  with  ignominy.  Nor 
can  the  mental  alienation,  which  afterwards  afflicted  him, 
and  deprived  the  world  of  his  great  talents,  in  the  vigour 
of  manhood, — for  he  was  at  this  time  only  in  his  forty-sixth 
year, — be  wholly  attributed  to  the  wound  he  received.  His 
disposition  was  so  ardent,  and  his  mind  so  excitable,  that 
its  natural  tendency,  under  aggravating  circumstances,  was 
to  insanity.  Had  he  lived  in  ordinary  times,  in  the  usual 
exercise  of  professional  or  political  duties,  undisturbed  by 
adverse  events,  he  might  have  escaped  the  misfortune  that 
befell  him.  His  generous  and  social  humour,  his  wit  and 
ready  talent,  would  have  rendered  his  career  easy  and  tran 
quil.  But  he  was  called  upon  to  act  in  public  affairs  at  a 
most  arduous  epoch  :  he  had  to  maintain  a  continual  struggle 
against  insidious  placemen  and  insolent  oppressors  :  he  him 
self  was  denounced,  proscribed,  and  frequently  insulted.  The 
feelings  of  his  own  injuries,  joined  to  those  for  his  country, 
kept  his  mind  in  constant  action,  anxiety  and  irritation. 
Having  espoused  the  cause  of  his  fellow-citizens,  with  all 
his  strength  and  all  his  mind,  at  a  time  when  new  wrongi 
and  new  difficulties  were  incessantly  recurring,  he  knew 
no  repose.  His  faculties  were  perpetually  agitated,  and 
he  did  not  sufficiently  master  and  subdue  his  indignation 


510  COMMON-PLACE  COOK  OF  THOSE. 

against  subaltern  agents,  though  prime  movers  in  this  mis 
chief,  jet  who  were  in  reality  deserving  only  of  his  con 
tempt.  It  was  an  unfortunate  yielding  to  his  anger,  th* 
placing  himself,  as  he  did  in  some  degree,  on  a  level  with 
the  commissioners  of  the  customs,  whom  he  ought  merely 
to  have  unmasked  and  left  to  public  scorn,  without  degrad 
ing  himself  to  a  personal  rencounter.  The  injuries  he 
sustained  in  it  impaired  his  power  of  self-control,  and  con 
tributed  essentially  to  his  subsequent  derangement. 


Close  of  the  Lives  of  Adams  and  Jefferson. — WEBSTER. 

IN  1820  Mr.  Adams  acted  as  elector  of  president  and 
vice-president,  and  in  the  same  year  we  saw  him,  then  at 
the  age  of  eighty-five,  a  member  of  the  convention  of  this 
commonwealth,  called  to  revise  the  constitution.  Forty 
years  before,  he  had  been  one  of  those  who  formed  that  con 
stitution  ;  and  he  had  now  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  that 
there  was  little  which  the  people  desired  to  change.  Pos 
sessing  all  his  faculties  to  the  end  of  his  long  life,  with  an 
unabated  love  of  reading  and  contemplation,  in  the  centre 
of  interesting  circles  of  friendship  and  affection,  he  was 
blessed  in  his  retirement  with  whatever  of  repose  and 
felicity  the  condition  of  man  allows.  He  had,  also,  other 
enjoyments.  He  saw  around  him  that  prosperity  and 
general  happiness,  which  had  been  the  object  of  his  public 
cares  and  labours.  No  man  ever  beheld  more  clearly,  and 
for  a  longer  time,  the  great  and  beneficial  effects  of  the 
services  rendered  by  himself  to  his  country.  That  liberty, 
which  he  so  early  defended,  that  independence,  of  which 
he  was  so  able  an  advocate  and  supporter,  he  saw,  we 
trust,  firmly  and  securely  established.  The  population  of 
the  country  thickened  around  him  faster,  and  extended 
wider,  than  his  own  sanguine  predictions  had  anticipated , 
and  the  wealth,  respectability  and  power  of  the  nation 
sprang  up  to  a  magnitude,  which  it  is  quite  impossible  he 
could  have  expected  to  witness  in  his  day.  He  lived, 
also,  to  behold  those  principles  of  civil  freedom,  which  had 
been  developed,  established;  and  practically  applied,  in 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  1'ROSE.  311 

America,  attract  attention,  command  respect,  and  awaken 
imitation,  in  other  regions  of  the  globe  ;  and  well  might, 
and  well  did,  he  exclaim,  "  Where  will  the  consequences 
ol  the  American  revolution  end  !" 

If  any  thing  yet  remain  to  till  this  cup  of  happiness,  let 
it  be  added,  that  he  lived  to  see  a  great  and  intelligent 
people  bestow  the  highest  honour  in  their  gift,  where  he 
bad  bestowed  his  own  kindest  parental  affections,  and 
lodged  his  fondest  hopes.  Thus  honoured  in  life,  thus  hap 
py  at  death,  he  saw  the  Jubilee,  and  he  died  ;  and  with 
the  last  prayers  which  trembled  on  his  lips,  was  the  fer 
vent  supplication  for  his  country,  "  Independence  for 
ever  !" 

From  the  time  of  his  final  retirement  from  public  life, 
in  1807,  Mr.  Jefferson  lived  as  became  a  wise  man.  Sur 
rounded  by  affectionate  friends,  his  ardour  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge  undimiuished,  with  uncommon  health,  and 
unbroken  spirits,  he  was  able  to  enjoy  largely  the  rational 
pleasures  of  life,  and  to  partake  in  that  public  prosperity, 
which  he  had  so  much  contributed  to  produce.  His  kind 
ness  and  hospitality,  the  charm  of  his  conversation,  the 
ease  of  his  manners,  the  extent  of  his  acquirements,  and 
especially  the  full  store  of  revolutionary  incidents,  which 
he  possessed,  and  which  he  knew  when  and  how  to  dis 
pense,  rendered  his  abode  in  a  high  degree  attractive  to 
his  admiring  countrymen,  while  his  high  public  and  scien 
tific  character  drew  towards  him  every  intelligent  and  ed 
ucated  traveller  from  abroad.  Both  Mr.  Adams  and  Mr. 
Jefferson  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing,  that  the  respect, 
which  they  so  largely  received,  was  not  paid  to  their  offi 
cial  stations.  They  were  not  men  made  great  by  office, 
but  great  men,  on  whom  the  country,  for  its  own  benefit, 
had  conferred  office.  There  was  that  in  them,  which  of 
fice  did  not  give,  and  which  the  relinquishment  of  office 
did  not,  and  could  not,  take  away.  In  their  retirement,  in 
the  midst  of  their  fellow-citizens,  themselves  private  citi 
zens,  they  enjoyed  as  high  regard  and  esteem,  as  when 
filling  the  most  important  places  of  public  trust. 

There  remained  to  Mr.  Jefferson  yet  one  other  work  of 
patriotism  and  beneficence, — the  establishment  of  a  univer 
sity  in  his  native  state.  To  this  object  he  devoted  years 


812  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

of  incessant  and  anxious  attention,  and,  by  the  enlightened 
liberality  of  the  legislature  of  Virginia,  and  the  co-opera 
tion  of  other  able  and  zealous  friends,  he  lived  to  see  it  ac 
complished.  May  all  success  attend  this  infant  seminary  ; 
and  may  those  who  enjoy  its  advantages,  as  often  as  their 
eyes  shall  rest  on  the  neighbouring  height,  recollect  what 
they  owe  to  their  disinterested  and  indefatigable  benefac 
tor  ;  and  may  letters  honour  him,  who  thus  laboured  in 
the  cause  of  letters. 

Thus  useful,  and  thus  respected,  passed  the  old  age  of 
Thomas  Jefferson.  But  time  was  on  its  ever-ceaseless 
wing,  and  was  now  bringing  the  last  hour  of  this  illustri 
ous  man.  He  saw  its  approach  with  undisturbed  serenity. 
He  counted  the  moments,  as  they  passed,  and  beheld  that 
his  last  sands  were  falling.  That  day,  too,  was  at  hand, 
which  he  had  helped  to  make  immortal.  One  wish,  one 
hope, — if  it  were  not  presumptuous, — beat  in  his  fainting 
breast.  Could  it  be  so — might  it  please  God — he  would 
desire  once  more  to  see  the  sun, — once  more  to  look  abroad 
on  the  scene  around  him, — on  the  great  day  of  liberty. 
Heaven,  in  its  mercy,  fulfilled  that  prayer.  He  saw  that 
sun — he  enjoyed  its  sacred  light — he  thanked  God  for  his 
mercy,  and  bowed  his  aged  head  in  the  grave.  "  Fe 
lix,  non  vilee  tantum  claritate,  sed  etiam  opportunitate 
mortis." 


Morals  of  Chess. — FRANKLIN. 

PL.AYING  at  chess  is  the  most  ancient  and  universal 
game  known  among  men  ;  for  its  original  is  beyond  the 
memory  of  history,  and  it  has  for  numberless  ages  been 
the  amusement  of  all  the  civilized  nations  of  Asia, — the 
Persians,  the  Indians,  and  the  Chinese.  Europe  has  had 
it  above  a  thousand  years ;  the  Spaniards  have  spread  it 
over  their  part  of  America,  and  it  begins  to  make  its  ap 
pearance  in  these  States.  It  is  so  interesting  in  itself  as 
not  to  need  the  view  of  gain  to  induce  engaging  in  it ;  and 
thence  it  is  never  played  for  money.  Those,  therefore, 
Who  have  leisure  for  such  diversions  cannot  find  one  that 


COMMON-PLACE  COOK  OF  i ROSE.  313 

is  more  innocent ;  and  the  following  piece,  written  with  a 
view  to  correct  (among  a  few  young  friends)  some  little 
improprieties  in  the  practice  of  it,  shows,  at  the  same  time, 
that  it  may,  in  its  effects  on  the  mind,  be  not  merely  inno 
cent,  but  advantageous,  to  the  vanquished  as  well  as  the 
victor. 

The  game  of  chess  is  not  merely  an  idle  amusement. 
Several  very  valuable  qualities  of  the  mind,  useful  in  the 
course  of  human  life,  are  to  be  acquired,  or  strengthened, 
-Tiy  it,  so  as  to  become  habits,  ready  on  all  occasions.  For 
life  is  a  kind  of  chess,  in  which  we  have  points  to  gain, 
and  competitors  or  adversaries  to  contend  with,  and  in  which 
there  is  a  vast  variety  of  good  and  ill  events,  that  are,  in 
some  degree,  the  effects  of  prudence  or  the  want  of  it.  By 
playing  at  chess,  then,  we  learn, 

1.  Foresight,  which  looks  a  little  into  futurity,  considers 
the  consequences  that  may  attend  an  action ;  for  it  is  con 
tinually  occurring  to .  the  player,  "  If  I  move  this  piece, 
what  will  be  the  advantage  of  my  new  situation :     What 
use  can  my  adversary  make  of  it  to  annoy  me  ?    What  other 
moves  can  I  make  to  support  it,  and  to  defend  myself  from 
his  attacks  ?" 

2.  Circumspection,  which  surveys   the  whole    chess 
board,  or  scene  of  action,  the  relations  of  the  several  pieces 
and  situations,  the  dangers  they  are  respectively  exposed 
to,  the  several  possibilities  of  their  aiding  each  other,  the 
probabilities  that  the  adversary  may  take  this  or  that  move, 
arid  attack  this  or  the  other  piece,  and  what  different  means 
can  be  used  to  avoid  his  stroke,  or  turn  its  consequences 
against  him. 

3.  Caution,  not  to  make  our  moves  too  hastily.     This 
habit  is  best  acquired  by  observing,  strictly  the  laws  of  the 
game,  such  as,  "  If  you  touch  a  piece,  you  must  move  it 
somewhere;  if  you  set  it  down,  you  must  let  it  stand  •'" 
and  it  is  therefore  best  that  these  rules  should  be  observed ; 
as  the  game  thereby  becomes  more  the  image  of  human 
life,  and  particularly  of  war  ;  in  which,  if  you  have  incau 
tiously  put  yourself  into  a  bad  and  dangerous  position,  you 
cannot  obtain  your  enemy's  leave  to  withdraw  your  troops, 
and  place  them  more  securely,  but  you  must  abide  all  the 
consequences  of  your  rashness. 

27 


314  COMMON-PLACE  Be  OK  OF  PROSE. 

And,  lastly,  we  learn  by  chess  the  habit  of  not  beinf 
discouraged  by  present  bad  appearances  in  the  slate  of 
our  affairs,  the  habit  of  hoping  for  a  favourable  change, 
and  that  of  persevering  in  the  search  of  resources.  The 
game  is  so  full  of  events,  there  is  such  a  variety  of  turns 
in  it,  the  fortune  of  it  is  so  subject  to  sudden  vicissitudes, 
and  one  so  frequently,  after  long  contemplation,  discovers 
the  means  of  extricating  one's  self  from  a  supposed  insur 
mountable  difficulty,  that  one  is  encouraged  to  continue  the 
contest  to  the  last,  in  hope  of  victory  by  our  own  skill,  or 
at  least  of  giving  a  stale  mate,  by  the  negligence  of  our 
adversary.  And  whoever  considers,  what  in  chess  he  often 
sees  instances  of,  that  particular  pieces  of  success  are  apt 
to  produce  presumption,  and  its  consequent  inattention,  by 
which  the  loss  may  be  recovered,  will  learn  not  to  be  too 
much  discouraged  by  the  present  success  of  his  adversary, 
nor  to  despair  of  final  good  fortune,  upon  every  little  check 
he  receives  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

That  we  may,  therefore,  be  induced  more  frequently  to 
choose  this  beneficial  amusement,  in  preference  to  others, 
which  are  not  attended  with  the  same  advantages,  every 
circumstance  which  may  increase  the  pleasure  of  it  should 
be  regarded ;  and  every  action  or  word  that  is  unfair,  dis 
respectful,  or  that  in  any  way  may  give  uneasiness,  should 
be  avoided,  as  contrary  to  the  immediate  intention  of  both 
the  players,  which  is,  to  pass  the  time  agreeably. 

Therefore,  first,  If  it  is  agreed  to  play  according  to 
the  strict  rules ;  then  those  rules  are  to  be  exactly  ob 
served  by  both  parties,  and  should  not  be  insisted  on  fot 
one  side,  while  deviated  from  by  the  other — for  this  is  not 
equitable. 

Secondly,  If  it  is  agreed  not  to  observe  the  rules  exact 
ly,  but  one  party  demands  indulgences,  he  should  then  be 
as  willing  to  allow  them  to  the  other. 

Thirdly,  No  false  move  should  ever  be  made  to  extricate 
yourself  out  of  a  difficulty,  or  to  gain  an  advantage.  There 
can  be  no  pleasure  in  playing  with  a  person  once  detected 
.n  such  unfair  practices. 

Fourthly,  If  your  adversary  is  long  in  playing,  you  ougjht 
not  to  hurry  him,  or  to  express  any  uneasiness  at  his  delay. 
You  should  not  sing,  nor  whistle,  nor  look  at  your  watch. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  315 

nor  take  up  a  book  to  read,  nor  make  a  tapping  with  your 
feet  oil  the  floor,  or  with  your  fingers  on  the  table,  nor  do 
any  thing  that  may  disturb  his  attention.  For  all  these 
things  displease  ;  and  they  do  not  show  your  skill  in  play 
ing,  but  your  craftiness  or  your  rudeness. 

Fifthly,  You  ought  not  to  endeavour  to  amuse  and  de 
ceive  your  adversary,  by  pretending  to  have  made  bad 
moves,  and  saying  that  you  have  now  lost  the  game,  in 
order  to  make  him  secure  and  careless,  and  inattentive  to 
your  schemes ;  for  this  is  fraud  and  deceit,  not  skill  in  the 
game. 

Sixthly,  You  must  not,  when  you  have  gained  a  victory, 
use  any  triumphing  or  insulting  expression,  nor  show  too 
much  pleasure  ;  but  endeavour  to  console  your  adversary , 
and  make  him  less  dissatisfied  with  himself,  by  every  kind 
of  civil  expression  that  may  be  used  with  truth ;  such  as, 
"  You  understand  the  game  better  than  I,  but  you  are  a 
little  inattentive ;  or,  you  play  too  fast ;  or,  you  had  the 
best  of  tho  game,  but  something  happened  to  divert  your 
thoughts,  and  that  turned  it  in  my  favour." 

Seventhly,  If  you  are  a  spectator  while  others  play,  ob 
serve  the  most  perfect  silence.  For  if  you  give  advice, 
you  offend  both  parties ;  him  against  whom  you  give  it, 
because  it  may  cause  the  loss  of  his  game ;  and  him  in 
whose  favour  you  give  it,  because,  though  it  be  good,  and 
he  follows  it,  he  loses  the  pleasure  he  might  have  had,  if 
you  had  permitted  him  to  think  until  it  had  occurred  to 
himself.  Even  after  a  move  or  moves,  you  must  not,  by 
replacing  the  pieces,  show  how  it  might  have  been  placed 
better ;  for  that  displeases,  and  may  occasion  disputes  and 
doubts  about  their  true  situation.  All  talking  to  the  players 
lessens  or  diverts  their  attention,  and  is  therefore  unpleas- 
ing.  Nor  should  you  give  the  least  hint  to  either  party, 
by  any  kind  of  noise  or  motion.  If  you  do,  you  are  un 
worthy  to  be  a  spectator.  If  you  have 'a  mind  to  exercise 
or  show  your  judgment,  do  it  in  playing  your  own  game, 
when  you  have  an  opportunity,  not  in  criticising,  or  med 
dling  with,  or  counselling  the  play  of  others. 

Lastly,  If  the  game  is  not  to  be  played  rigorously,  ac 
cording  to  the  rules  above-mentioned,  then  moderate  your 
desire  of  victory  over  your  adversary,  and  be  pleased  with 


316  COMBION-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

one  over  yourself.  Snatch  not  eagerly  at  every  advantage 
offered  by  his  unskilfulness  or  inattention ;  but  point  out  to 
him  kindly,  that  by  such  a  move  he  places  or  leaves  a  piece 
in  danger  and  unsupported  ;  that  by  another  he  will  put  his 
king  in  a  perilous  situation,  &c.  By  this  generous  civility 
(so  opposite  to  the  unfairness  above  forbidden)  you  may,  in 
deed,  happen  to  lose  the  game  to  your  opponent ;  but  you 
will  win  what  is  better,' — his  esteem,  his  respect,  and  his 
affection ;  together  with  the  silent  approbation  and  good 
will  of  impartial  spectators. 


The  Hospital  in  Philadelphia  during  the  Pestilence. — 
C.  B.  BROWN. 

I  WAS  seized  with  a  violent  fever.  I  knew  in  what  manner 
patients  Were  treated  at  the  hospital,  and  removal  thither 
was  to  the  last  degree  abhorred. 

The  morning  arrived,  and  my  situation  was  discovered. 
At  the  first  intimation,  Thetford  rushed  out  of  the  house, 
and  refused  to  re-enter  it  till  I  was  removed.  I  knew  not 
my  fate,  till  three  ruffians  made  their  appearance  at  my 
bedside,  and  communicated  their  commission. 

I  called  on  the  name  of  Thetford  and  his  wife.  I  en 
treated  a  moment's  delay,  till  I  had  seen  these  persons,  and 
endeavoured  to  procure  a  respite  from  my  sentence.  They 
were  deaf  to  my  entreaties,  and  prepared  to  execute  their 
office  by  force.  I  was  delirious  with  rage  and  terror.  I 
heaped  the  bitterest  execrations  on  my  murderer ;  and  by 
turns  invoked  the  compassion  of,  and  poured  a  torrent  of  re 
proaches  on,  the  wretches  whom  he  had  selected  for  his 
ministers.  My  struggles  and  outcries  were  vain. 

I  havt  no  perfect  recollection  of  what  passed  till  my  ar 
rival  at  the  hospital.  My  passions  combined  with  my  disease 
to  make  me  frantic  and  wild.  In  a  state  like  mine,  the 
slightest  motion  could  not  be  endured  without  agony.  What 
then  must  I  have  felt,  scorched  and  dazzled  by  the  sun, 
sustained  by  hard  boards,  and  borne  for  miles  over  a  rug« 
ged  pavement .' 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  31? 

I  cannot  make  you  comprehend  the  anguish  of  my 
feelings.  To  be  disjointed  and  torn  piece-meal  by  the  rack, 
was  a  torment  inexpressibly  inferior  to  this.  Nothing  ex 
cites  my  wonder,  but  that  I  did  not  expire  before  the  cart 
had  moved  three  paces. 

I  knew  not  how,  or  by  whom,  I  was  moved  from  this 
vehicle.  Insensibility  came  at  length  to  my  relief.  After 
a  time  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  slowly  gained  some  knowl 
edge  of  my  situation.  I  lay  upon  a  mattress,  whose  condi 
tion  proved  that  a  half-decayed  corpse  had  recently  been 
dragged  from  it.  The  room  was  large,  but  it  was  covered 
with  beds  like  my  own.  Between  each,  there  was  scarce 
ly  the  interval  of  three  feet.  Each  sustained  a  wretch, 
whose  groans  and  distortions  bespoke  the  desperateness  of 
his  condition. 

The  atmosphere  was  loaded  by  mortal  stenches.  A  va 
pour,  suffocating  and  malignant,  scarcely  allowed  me  to 
breathe.  No  suitable  receptacle  was  provided  for  the  evac 
uations  produced  by  medicine  or  disease.  My  nearest 
neighbour  was  struggling  with  death,  and  my  bed,  casually 
extended,  was  moist  with  the  detestable  matter  which  had 
flowed  from  his  stomach. 

You  will  scarcely  believe  that,  in  this  scene  of  horrors,  the 
sound  of  laughter  should  be  overheard.  While  the  upper 
rooms  of  this  building  are  filled  with  the  sick  and  the  dying, 
the  lower  apartments  are  the  scene  of  carousals  and  mirth. 
The  wretches  who  are  hired,  at  enormous  wages,  to  tend 
the  sick  and  convey  away  the  dead,  neglect  their  duty,  and 
consume  the  cordials,  which  are  provided  for  the  patients, 
in  debauchery  and  riot. 

A  female  visage,  bloated  with  malignity  and  drunken 
ness,  occasionally  looked  in.  Dying  eyes  were  cast  upon 
her,  invoking  the  boon,  perhaps,  of  a  drop  of  cold  water, 
or  her  assistance  to  chang"  a  posture  which  compelled  him 
to  behold  the  ghastly  writhings  or  deathful  smile  of  his 
neighbour. 

The  visitant  had  left  the  banquet  for  a  moment,  only  to 

see  who  was  dead.     If  she  entered  the  room,  blinking  eyes 

and  reeling  steps  showed  her  to  be  totally  unqualified  for 

ministering  the  aid  that  was  needed.     Presently,  she  dis« 

27  • 


318  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

appeared,  and  others  ascended  the  staircase :  a  coffin  wa» 
deposited  at  the  door :  the  wretch,  whose  heart  still  quiver 
ed,  was  seized  by  rude  hands,  and  dragged  along  the  floor 
into  the  passage. 

Oh  !  how  poor  are  the  conceptions  which  are  formed,  by 
the  fortunate  few,  of  the  sufferings  to  which  millions  of  their 
fellow-beings  are  condemned !  This  misery  was  more 
frightful,  because  it  was  seen  to  flow  from  the  depravity  of 
the  attendants.  My  own  eyes  only  would  make  me  credit 
the  existence  of  wickedness  so  enormous.  No  wonder  that 
to  die  in  garrets,  and  cellars,  and  stables,  unvisited  and  un 
known,  had,  by  so  many,  been  preferred  to  being  brought 
hither. 

A  physician  cast  an  eye  upon  my  state.  He  gave  some 
directions  to  the  person  who  attended  him.  I  did  not  com 
prehend  them ;  they  were  never  executed  by  the  nurses, 
and,  if  the  attempt  had  been  made,  I  should  probably  have 
refused  to  receive  what  was  offered.  Recovery  was  equally 
beyond  my  expectations  and  my  wishes.  The  scene  which 
was  hourly  displayed  before  me,  the  entrance  of  the  sick, 
most  of  whom  perished  in  a  few  hours,  and  their  departure 
to  the  graves  prepared  for  them,  reminded  me  of  the  fate 
to  which  I,  also,  was  reserved. 

Three  days  passed  away,  in  which  every  hour  was  ex 
pected  to  be  the  last.  That,  amidst  an  atmosphere  so  con 
tagious  and  deadly,  amidst  causes  of  destruction  hourly  ac 
cumulating,  I  should  yet  survive,  appears  to  me  nothing 
less  than  miraculous.  That,  of  so  many  conducted  to  this 
house,  the  only  one  who  passed  out  of  it  alive  should  be 
myself,  almost  surpasses  my  belief. 

Some  inexplicable  principle  rendered  harmless  those  po 
tent  enemies  of  human  life.  My  fever  subsided  and  van 
ished.  My  strength  was  revived,  and  the  first  use  that  1 
made  of  my  limbs  was,  to  bear  me  far  from  the  contempt 
Uor*  and  sufferance  of  those  evils. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PKOSE.  319 


SUiipwreck  of  the  Ariel. — COOPER. 

Ariel  continued  to  struggle  against  the  winds  aud 
ocean  tar  several  hours  longer,  before  the  day  broke  on  the 
tempestuous  scene,  and  the  anxious  mariners  were  enabled 
to  form  a  more  accurate  estimate  of  their  real  danger.  As 
the  violence  of  the  gale  increased,  the  canvass  of  the 
schooner  had  been  gradually  reduced,  until  she  was  unable 
to  show  more  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  prevent  her 
driving,  helplessly,  on  the  land.  Barnstable  watched  the 
appearance  of  the  weather,  as.  the  light  slowly  opened 
upon  them,  with  an  intensity  of  anxiety,  which  denoted, 
that  the  presentiments  of  the  cockswain  were  no  longer 
deemed  idle.  On  looking  to  windward,  he  beheld  the 
green  masses  of  water  that  were  rolling  in  towards  the 
land,  with  a  violence  that  seemed  irresistible,  crowned 
with  ridges  of  foam  ;  and  there  were  moments  when  the 
air  appeared  filled  with  sparkling  gems,  as  the  rays  of  the 
rising  sun  fell  upon  the  spray  that  was  swept  from  wave  to 
wave.  Towards  the  land,  the  view  was  still  more  appal 
ling.  The  cliffs,  but  a  short  half  league  under  the  lee  of 
•the  schooner,  were,  at  times,  nearly  hid  from  the  eye  by 
the  pyramids  of  water,  which  the  furious  element,  so  sud 
denly  restrained  in  its  violence,  cast  high  into  the  air,  as 
if  seeking  to  overstep  the  boundaries  that  nature  had  affix 
ed  to  its  dominion.  The  whole  coast,  from  the  distant  head 
land  at  the  south,  to  the  well  known  shoals  that  stretched 
far  beyond  their  course,  in  the  opposite  direction,  displayed 
a  broad  belt  of  foam,  into  which  it  would  have  been  cer 
tain  destruction,  for  the  proudest  ship  that  swam,  to  have 
entered.  Still  the  Ariel  floated  on  the  billows,  lightly  and 
in  safety,  though  yielding  to  the  impulses  of  the  waters, 
and,  at  times,  appearing  to  be  ingulfed  in  the  yawning 
chasms,  which,  apparently,  opened  beneath  her  to  receive 
the  little  fabric.  The  low  rumour  of  acknowledged  dan 
ger,  had  found  its  way  through  the  schooner,  and  the  sea 
men,  after  fastening  their  hopeless  looks  on  the  small  spot 
of  canvass  that  they  were  enabled  to  show  to  the  tempest, 
would  turn  to  view  the  dreary  line  of  coast,  that  seem 
ed  to  offer  so  gloomy  an  alternative.  Even  Dillon,  to  whom 


820  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

the  report  of  their  danger  had  found  its  way,  crept  from 
his  place  of  concealment  in  the  cabin,  and  moved  about 
the  decks  unheeded,  devouring,  with  greedy  ears,  such 
opinions  as  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  sullen  mariners. 

At  this  moment  of  appalling  apprehension,  the  cockswain 
exhibited  the  most  calm  resignation.  He  knew  that  all 
had  been  done,  that  lay  in  the  power  of  man,  to  urge  their 
little  vessel  from  the  land,  and  it  was  now  too  evident  to 
his  experienced  eyes,  that  it  had  been  done  in  vain ;  but, 
considering  himself  as  a  sort  of  fixture  in  the  schooner,  he 
was  quite  prepared  to  abide  her  fate,  be  it  for  better  or 
for  worse.  The  settled  look  of  gloom,  that  gathered  around 
the  frank  brow  of  Barnstable,  was,  in  no  degree,  connect 
ed  with  any  considerations  of  himself,  but  proceeded  from 
that  sort  of  parental  responsibility,  from  which  the  sea- 
commander  is  never  exempt.  The  discipline  of  the  crew, 
however,  still  continued  perfect  and  unyielding.  There 
had,  it  is  true,  been  a  slight  movement  made  by  two  of  the 
oldest  seamen,  which  indicated  an  intention  to  drown  the 
apprehensions  of  death  in  ebriety  ;  but  Barnstable  had 
called  for  his  pistols,  in  a  tone  that  checked  the  procedure 
instantly,  and,  although  the  fatal  weapons  were  untouched 
by  him,  but  were  left  to  lie  exposed  on  the  capstan,  where 
they  had  been  placed  by  his  servant,  not  another  symptom 
of  insubordination  appeared  among  the  devoted  crew. 
There  was  even,  what  to  a  landsman  might  seem,  a  dread 
ful  affectation  of  attention  to  the  most  trifling  duties  of  the 
vessel ;  and  the  men,  who,  it  should  seem,  ought  to  be  de 
voting  the  brief  moments  of  their  existence  to  the  mighty 
business  of  the  hour,  were  constantly  called  to  attend  to  the 
most  trivial  details  of  their  profession.  Ropes  were  coiled, 
and  the  slightest  damages  occasioned  by  the  waves,  that, 
at  shcrt  intervals,  swept  across  the  low  decks  of  the  Ariel, 
were  repaired,  with  the  same  precision  and  order,  as  if  she 
yet  lay  embayed  in  the  haven  from  which  she  had  just  been 
driven.  In  this  manner,  the  arm  of  authority  was  kept 
extended  over  the  silent  crew,  not  with  the  vain  desire  to 
preserve  a  lingering,  though  useless  exercise  of  power, 
but  with  a  view  to  maintain  that  unity  of  action,  that  now 
could  alone  afford  them  even  a  ray  of  hope. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  321 

"  She  can  make  no  head  against  this  sea,  under  that  rag 
of  canvass,"  said  Barnstable,  gloomily ;  addressing  the 
cockswain,  who,  with  folded  arms,  and  an  air  of  cool  resig 
nation,  was  balancing  his  body  on  the  verge  of  the  quarter 
deck,  while  the  schooner  was  plunging  madly  into  waves 
that  nearly  buried  her  in  their  bosom ;  "  the  poor  little 
thing  trembles  like  a  frightened  child,  as  she  meets  the 
water." 

Tom  sighed  heavily,  and  shook  his  head,  before  he  an 
swered-^— 

"  If  we  could  have  kept  the  head  of  the  main-mast  an 
hour  longer,  we  might  have  got  an  offing,  and  fetched  to 
windward  of  the  shoals  ;  but,  as  it  is,  sir,  mortal  man  can't 
drive  a  craft  to  windward — she  sets  bodily  in  to  land,  and 
will  be  in  the  breakers  in  less  than  an  hour,  unless  God 
wills  that  the  winds  shall  cease  to  blow." 

"  We  have  no  hope  left  us,  but  to  anchor ;  our  ground 
tackle  may  yet  bring  her  up." 

Tom  turned  to  his  commander,  and  replied,  solemnly, 
and  with  that  assurance  of  manner,  that  long  experience 
only  can  give  a  man  in  moments  of  great  danger — 

"  If  our  sheet-cable  was  bent  to  our  heaviest  anchor, 
this  sea  would  bring  it  home,  though  nothing  but  her 
launch  was  ridirig  by  it.  A  north-easter  in  the  German 
Ocean  must  and  will  blow  itself  out;  nor  shall  we  get  the 
crown  of  the  gale  until  the  sun  falls  over  the  land.  Then, 
indeed,  it  may  lull ;  for  the  winds  do  often  seem  to  rever 
ence  the  glory  of  the  heavens  too  much  to  blow  their  might 
in  its  very  face  !" 

"  We  must  do  our  duty  to  ourselves  and  the  country," 
returned  Barnstable  ,  "  go,  get  the  two  bowers  spliced,  and 
have  a  kedge  bent  to  a  hawser ;  we'll  back  our  two  an 
chors  together,  and  veer  to  the  better  end  of  two  hundred 
and  forty  fathoms;  it  may  yet  bring  her  up.  See  all  clear 
there  for  anchoring,  and  cutting  away  the  masts — we'll 
ieave  the  wind  nothing  but  a  naked  hull  to  whistle  over." 

"  Ay,  if  there  was  nothing  but  the  wind,  we  might  yet 
live  to  see  the  sun  sink  behind  them  hills,"  said  the  cock 
swain  ,  "  but  what  1  ?mp  can  stand  the  strain  of  a  craft 
that  is  buried,  halt  the  time,  to  her  foremast  in  the 
water  !" 


322  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

The  order  was,  however,  executed  by  the  crew,  with  a 
sort  of  desperate  submission  to  the  will  of  their  comman 
der  ;  and,  when  the  preparations  were  completed,  the  an 
chors  and  kedge  were  dropped  to  the  bottom,  and  the  in 
stant  that  the  Ariel  tended  to  the  wind,  the  axe  was  ap 
plied  to  the  little  that  was  left  of  her  long  raking  masts. 
The  crash  of  the  falling  spars,  as  they  came,  in  succession, 
across  the  decks  of  the  vessel,  appeared  to  produce  no  sen 
sation  amid  that  scene  of  complicated  danger  ;  but  the  sea 
men  proceeded  in  silence  in  their  hopeless  duty  of  clear 
ing  the  wrecks.  Every  eye  followed  the  floating  timbers, 
as  the  waves  swept  them  away  from  the  vessel,  with  a  sort 
of  feverish  curiosity,  to  witness  the  effect  produced  by  their 
collision  with  those  rocks  that  lay  so  fearfully  near  them  ; 
but,  long  before  the  spars  entered  the  wide  border  of  foam, 
they  were  hid  from  view  by  the  furious  element  in  which 
they  floated.  It  was,  now,  felt  by  the  whole  crew  of  the 
Ariel,  that  their  last  means  of  safety  had  been  adopted, 
and,  at  each  desperate  and  headlong  plunge  the  vessel  took 
into  the  bosom  of  the  seas  that  rolled  upon  her  forecastle, 
the  anxious  seamen  thought  they  could  perceive  the  yield 
ing  of  the  iron,  that  yet  clung  to  the  bottom,  or  could  hear 
the  violent  surge  of  the  parting  strands  of  the  cable,  that 
still  held  them  to  their  anchors.  While  the  minds  of  the 
sailors  were  agitated  with  the  faint  hopes  that  had  been 
excited  by  the  movements  of  their  schooner,  Dillon  had 
been  permitted  to  wander  about  the  vessel  unnoticed  ;  his 
rolling  eyes,  hard  breathing,  and  clenched  hands,  exciting 
no  observation  among  the  men,  whose  thoughts  were  yet 
dwelling  on  the  means  of  safety.  But  now,  when,  with 
a  sort  of  frenzied  desperation,  he  would  follow  the  retiring 
waters  along  the  decks,  and  venture  his  person  nigh  the 
group  that  had  collected  around  and  on  the  gun  of  the  cock 
swain,  glances  of  fierce  or  of  sullen  vengeance  were  cast 
at  him,  that  conveyed  threats  of  a  nature  that  he  was  too 
much  agitated  to  understand. 

"  If  ye  are  tired  of  this  world,  though  your  time,  like 
my  own,  is  probably  but  short  in  it,"  said  Tom  to  him,  as 
he  passed  the  cockswain  in  one  of  his  turns,  "  you  can  go 
forward  among  the  men  ;  but  if  ye  have  need  of  the  mo- 
men  a  to  foot  up  the  reck'ning  of  your  doings  among  mev, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  323 

afore  ye're  brought  to  face  your  Maker,  and  hear  the  log 
book  of  Heaven,  I  would  advise  you  to  keep  as  nigh  as  pos 
sible  to  Captain  Barnstable  or  myself." 

"  Will  you  promise  to  save  me,  if  the  vessel  is  wreck 
ed  ?"  exclaimed  Dillon,  catching  at  the  first  sounds  of 
friendly  interest  that  had  reached  his  ears,  since  he  had 
been  recaptured ;  "  oh  !  if  you  will,  I  can  secure  you 
future  ease ;  yes,  wealth,  for  the  remainder  of  your 
days !" 

"  Your  promises  have  been  too  ill  kept,  afore  this,  for  the 
peace  of  your  soul,"  returned  the  cockswain,  without  bit 
terness,  though  sternly ;  "  but  it  is  not  in  me  to  strike  even 
a  whale,  that  is  already  spouting  blood." 

The  intercessions  of  Dillon  were  interrupted  by  a  dread 
ful  cry,  that  arose  among  the  men  forward,  and  which 
sounded  with  increased  horror,  amid  the  roaring  of  the  tem 
pest.  The  schooner  rose  on  the  breast  of  a  wave  at  the 
same  instant,  and,  falling  off  with  her  broad  side  to  the  sea, 
she  drove  in  towards  the  cliffs,  like  a  bubble  on  the  rapid* 
of  a  cataract. 

"  Our  ground  tackle  has  parted,"  said  Tom,  with  his  re 
signed  patience  of  manner  undisturbed  ;  "  she  shall  die  as 
easy  as  man  can  make  her !"  While  he  yet  spoke,  he  seized 
the  tiller,  and  gave  to  the  vessel  such  a  direction,  as  would 
be  most  likely  to  cause  her  to  strike  the  rocks  with  her  bows 
foremost. 

There  was,  for  one  moment,  an  expression  of  exquisite 
anguish  betrayed  in  the  dark  countenance  of  Barnstable  ; 
but,  at  the  next,  it  passed  away,  and  he  spoke  cheerfully 
to  his  men — 

"  Be  steady,  my  lads  ;  be  calm  :  there  is  yet  a  hope  of 
life  for  you — our  light  draught  will  let  us  run  in  close  to 
the  cliffs,  and  it  is  still  falling  water — see  your  boats  clear, 
and  be  steady." 

The  crew  of  the  whale-boat,  aroused,  by  this  speech, 
from  a  sort  of  stupor,  sprang  into  their  light  vessel,  which 
was  quickly  lowered  into  the  sea,  and  kept  riding  on  the 
loam,  free  from  the  sides  of  the  schooner,  by  the  powerful 
exertions  of  the  men.  The  cry  for  the  cockswain  was 
earnest  and  repeated,  but  Tom  shook  his  head,  without  re 
plying,  still  grasping  the  tiller,  and  keeping  his  eyes  stead- 


824  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ily  bent  on  the  chaos  of  waters,  into  which  they  were 
driving.  The  launch,  the  largest  boat  of  the  two,  was  cut 
loose  from  the  "  gripes,"  and  the  bustle  and  exertion  of 
the  moment  rendered  the  crew  insensible  to  the  horror  of 
the  scene  that  surrounded  them.  But  the  loud,  hoarse 
call  of  the  cockswain,  to  "  look  out — secure  yourselves  •" 
suspended  even  their  efforts,  and  at  that  instant  the  Ariel 
settled  on  a  wave  that  melted  from  under  her,  heavily  on 
the  rocks.  The  shock  was  so  violent  as  to  throw  all,  who 
disregarded  the  warning  cry,  from  their  feet,  and  the  uni 
versal  quiver  that  pervaded  the  vessel  was  like  the  last 
shudder  of  animated  nature.  For  a  time  long  enough  to 
breathe,  the  least  experienced  among  the  men  supposed 
the  danger  to  be  passed  ;  but  a  wave  of  great  height  fol 
lowed  the  one  that  had  deserted  them,  and,  raising  the  ves 
sel  again,  threw  her  roughly  still  farther  on  her  bed  of 
rocks,  and  at  the  same  time  its  crest  broke  over  her  quar 
ter,  sweeping  the  length  of  her  decks,  with  a  fury  that 
was  almost  resistless.  The  shuddering  seamen  beheld  their 
loosened  boat  driven  from  their  grasp,  and  dashed  against 
the  base  of  the  cliffs,  where  no  fragment  of  her  wreck 
could  be  traced,  at  the  receding  of  the  waters.  But  the 
passing  wave  had  thrown  the  vessel  into  a  position  which, 
in  some  measure,  protected  her  decks  from  the  violence  of 
those  that  succeeded  it. 

"  Go,  my  boys,  go,"  said  Barnstable,  as  the  moment  of 
.'.readful  uncertainty  passed  ;  "  you  have  still  the  whale- 
boat,  and  she,  at  least,  will  take  you  nigh  the  shore  ;  go 
into  her,  my  boys  ;  God  bless  you,  God  bless  you  all ;  you 
have  been  faithful  and  honest  fellows,  and  I  believe  he 
will  not  yet  desert  you  ;  go,  my  friends,  while  there  is 
a  lull." 

The  seamen  threw  themselves,  in  a  mass  of  human  bod 
ies,  into  the  light  vessel,  which  nearly  sunk  under  the 
unusual  burthen ;  but  when  they  looked  around  them, 
Barnstable,  and  Merry,  Dillon,  and  the  cockswain,  were 
yet  to  be  seen  on  the  decks  of  the  Ariel.  The  former  was 
pacing,  in  deep,  and  perhaps  bitter  melancholy,  the  wet 
planks  of  the  schooner,  while  the  boy  hung,  unheeded,  on 
his  arm,  uttering  disregarded  petitions  to  his  commander, 
o  desert  the  wreck.  Dillon  approached  the  side  where 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  325 

the  boat  lay,  again  and  again,  but  the  threatening  counte 
nances  of  the  seamen  as  often  drove  him  back  in  despair. 
Tom  had  seated  himself  on  the  heel  of  the  bowsprit,  where 
he  continued,  in  an  attitude  of  quiet  resignation,  return 
ing  no  other  answers  to  the  loud  and  repeated  calls  of 
his  shipmates,  than  by  waving  his  hand  toward  the  shore. 

"  Now  hear  me,"  said  the  boy,  urging  his  request  to 
tears ;  "  if  not  for  my  sake,  or  for  your  own  sake,  Mr. 
Barnstable,  or  for  the  hopes  of  God's  mercy,  go  into  the 
boat,  for  the  love  of  my  cousin  Katherine." 

The  young  lieutenant  paused  in  his  troubled  walk,  and, 
for  a  moment,  he  cast  a  glance  of  hesitation  at  the  cliffs ; 
but,  at  the  next  instant,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  ruin  of  his  ves 
sel,  and  he  answered — 

"  Never,  boy,  never  ;  if  my  hour  has  come,  I  will  not 
ehrink  from  my  fate." 

"  Listen  to  the  men,  dear  sir  ;  the  boat  will  be  swamped 
along-side  the  wreck,  and  their  cry  is,  that  without  you 
they  will  not  let  her  go." 

Barnstable  motioned  to  the  boat,  to  bid  the  boy  enter  it, 
and  turned  away  in  silence. 

"  "Well,"  said  Merry,  with  firmness,  "  if  it  be  right  that 
a  lieutenant  shall  stay  by  a  wreck,  it  must  also  be  right  for 
a  midshipman;  "shove  off;  neither  Mr.  Barnstable  nor 
myself  will  quit  the  vessel." 

"  Boy,  your  life  has  been  intrusted  to  my  keeping,  and 
at  my  hands  will  it  be  required,"  said  his  commander,  lift 
ing  the  struggling  youth,  and  tossing  him  into  the  arms  of 
the  seamen.  "  Away  with  ye,  and  God  be  with  you  ; 
there  is  more  weight  in  you,  now,  than  can  go  safe  to 
land." 

Still,  the  seamen  hesitated,  for  they  perceived  the  cock 
swain  moving,  with  a  steady  tread,  along  the  deck,  and 
they  hoped  he  had  relented,  and  would  yet  persuade  the 
lieutenant  to  join  his  crew.  But  Tom,  imitating  the  ex 
ample  of  his  commander,  seized  the  latter,  suddenly,  in 
his  powerful  grasp,  and  threw  him  over  the  bulwarks  with 
an  irresistible  force.  At  the  same  moment,  he  cast  the 
last  of  the  boat  from  the  pin  that  held  it,  and,  lifting  his 
broad  hands  high  ii  to  the  air,  his  voice  was  heard  in  the 
Nempest.  .-& 

28 


32U  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  WIOSL. 

"  God's  will  be  done  with  me,"  he  cried  ;  "  I  saw  th« 
first  timber  of  the  Ariel  laid,  and  shall  live  just  long  enough 
to  see  it  torn  out  of  her  bottom  ;  after  which  I  wish  to  live 
no  longer." 

But  his  shipmates  were  swept  far  beyond  the  sounds  of 
his  voice,  before  half  these  words  were  uttered.  All  com 
mand  of  the  boat  was  rendered  impossible,  by  the  num 
bers  it  contained,  as  well  as  the  raging  of  the  surf;  and, 
as  it  rose  on  the  white  crest  of  a  wave,  Tom  saw  his  be 
loved  little  craft  for  the  last  time ;  it  fell  into  a  trough  of 
the  sea,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  its  fragments  were 
ground  into  splinters  on  the  adjacent  rocks.  The  cock 
swain  still  remained  where  he  had  cast  off  the  rope,  and 
beheld  the  numerous  heads  and  arms  that  appeared  rising, 
at  short  intervals,  on  the  waves  ;  some  making  powerful 
and  well-directed  efforts  to  gain  the  sands,  that  were  be 
coming  visible  as  the  tide  fell,  and  others  wildly  tossed,  in 
the  frantic  movements  of  helpless  despair.  The  honest  old 
seaman  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  as  he  saw  Barnstable  issue  from 
the  surf,  bearing  the  form  of  Merry  in  safety  to  the  sands, 
where,  one  by  one,  several  seamen  soon  appeared  also, 
dripping  and  exhausted.  Many  others  of  the  crew  were 
carried,  in  a  similar  manner,  to  places  of  safety  ;  though, 
as  Tom  returned  to  his  seat  on  the  bowsprit,  he  could  not 
conceal,  from  his  reluctant  eyes,  the  lifeless  forms,  that 
were,  in  other  spots,  driven  against  the  rocks,  with  a  fury 
that  soon  left  them  but  few  of  the  outward  vestiges  of  hu 
manity. 

Dillon  and  the  cockswain  were  now  the  sole  occupants 
of  their  dreadful  station.  The  former  stood,  in  a  kind  of 
stupid  despair,  a  witness  of  the  scene  we  have  related  ; 
but,  as  his  curdled  blood  began  again  to  flow  more  warmly 
tr  rough  his  heart,  he  crept  close  to  the  side  of  Tom, 
with  that  sort  of  selfish  feeling  that  makes  even  hopeless 
misery  more  tolerable,  when  endured  in  participation  with 
another. 

"  When  the  tide  falls,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed 
the  agony  of  fear,  though  his  words  expressed  the  renewal 
of  hope,  "  we  shall  be  able  to  walk  to  land." 

''  There  was  One,  and  only  One,  to  whose  feet  the  wa 
ters  were  the  same  as  a  dry  deck,"  returned  the  cock- 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  327 

swain ;  "  and  none  but  such  as  have  his  power  will  ever 
be  able  to  walk  from  these  rocks  to  the  sands."  The  old 
seaman  paused,  and,  turning  his  eyes,  which  exhibited  4. 
mingled  expression  of  disgust  and  compassion,  on  his  com 
panion,  he  added,  with  reverence — "  Had  you  thought 
more  of  him  in  fair  weather,  your  case  would  be  less  to  be 
pitied  in  this  tempest." 

"  Do  you  still  think  there  is  much  danger  ?"  asked 
Dillon. 

"  To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death :  listen !  do  you 
hear  that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye  ?" 

"  'Tis  the  wind,  driving  by  the  vessel !" 

"  'Tis  the  poor  thing  herself,"  said  the  affected  cock 
swain,  "  giving  her  last  groans.  The  water  is  breaking 
up  her  decks,  and,  in  a  few  minutes  more,  the  handsomest 
model  that  ever  cut  a  wave  will  be  like  the  chips  that  fell 
from  her  timbers  in  framing  !" 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  remain  here  ?"  cried  Dillon, 
wildly. 

"  To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God," 
returned  Tom  :  "  these  waves  to  me  are  what  the  land  is 
to  you  ;  I  was  born  on  them,  and  I  have  always  meant  that 
they  should  he  my  grave." 

"  But  I — I,"  shrieked  Dillon,  "  I  am  not  ready  to  die  ! — • 
I  cannot  die  ! — I  will  not  die  !" 

"  Poor  wretch  !"  muttered  his  companion;  "  you  must 
go,  like  the  rest  of  us ;  when  the  death-watch  is  called, 
none  can  skulk  from  the  muster." 

"  I  can  swim,"  Dillon  continued,  rushing,  with  frantic 
eagerness,  to  the  side  of  the  wreck.  "  Is  there  no  billet 
of  wood,  no  rope,  that  I  can  take  with  me  ?" 

"  None  ;  every  thing  has  been  cut  away,  or  carried  off 
by  the  sea.  If  ye  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take 
with  ye  a  stout  heart  and  a  clean  conscience,  and  trust  the 
rest  to  God !" 

"  God  !"  echoed  Dillon,  in  the  madness  of  his  frenzy  ; 
"  I  know  no  God  !  there  is  no  God  that  knows  me !" 

"  Peace  '"  sail  the  deep  tones  of  the  cockswain,  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements;  "  blasphemer, 
peace  '" 


828  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

The  heavy  groaning,  produced  by  the  water,  in  the  tim 
bers  of  the  Ariel,  at  that  moment,  added  its  impulse  ta 
the  raging  feelings  of  Dillon,  and  he  cast  himself  headlong 
into  the  sea. 

The  water,  thrown  by  the  rolling  of  the  surf  on  the  beach, 
was  necessarily  returned  to  the  ocean,  in  eddies,  in  differ 
ent  places,  favourable  to  such  an  action  of  the  element. 
Into  the  edge  of  one  of  these  counter-currents,  that  was 
produced  by  the  very  rocks  on  which  the  schooner  lay,  and 
which  the  watermen  call  the  "  under-tow,"  Dillon  had, 
unknowingly,  thrown  his  person,  and  when  the  waves  had 
driven  him  a  short  distance  from  the  wreck,  he  was  met 
by  a  stream  that  his  most  desperate  efforts  could  not  over 
come.  He  was  a  light  and  powerful  swimmer,  and  the 
struggle  was  hard  and  protracted.  With  the  shore  imme 
diately  before  his  eyes,  and  at  no  great  distance,  he  was 
led,  as  by  a  false  phantom,  to  continue  his  efforts,  although 
they  did  not  advance  him  a  foot.  The  old  seaman,  who, 
at  first,  had  watched  his  motions  with  careless  indifference, 
understood  the  danger  of  his  situation  at  a  glance,  and,  for 
getful  of  his  own  fate,  he  shouted  aloud,  in  a  voice  that 
was  driven  over  the  struggling  victim,  to  the  ears  of  his 
shipmates  on  the  sands — 

"  Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under-tow  !  sheer  to  the 
southward  !" 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds,  but  his  faculties  were  too  much 
obscured  by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object ;  he,  how 
ever,  blindly  yielded  to  the  call,  and  gradually  changed  his 
direction,  until  his  face  was  once  more  turned  towards  the 
ressel.  The  current  swept  him  diagonally  by  the  rocks, 
and  he  was  forced  into  an  eddy,  where  he  had  nothing  to 
contend  against  but  the  waves,  whose  violence  was  much 
broken  by  the  wreck.  In  this  state  he  continued  still  to 
struggle,  but  with  a  force  that  was  too  much  weakened  to 
overcome  the  resistance  he  met.  Tom  looked  around  him 
for  a  rope,  but  not  one  presented  itself  to  his  hands ;  all 
had  gone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been  swept  away  by  the 
waves,  At  this  moment  of  disappointment,  his  eyes  met 
those  of  the  desperate  Dillon.  Calm,  and  inured  to  hor 
rors,  as  was  the  veteran  seaman,  he  involuntarily  passed 
his  hand  be'ore  his  brow,  as  if  to  exclude  the  look  of  despaii 


| 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  329 

he  encountered ;  and  when,  a  moment  afterwards,  he  re 
moved  the  rigid  member,  he  beheld  the  sulking  form  of 
the  victim,  as  it  gradually  settled  iu  the  ocean,  still  strug 
gling,  with  regular  but  impotent  strokes  of  the  arms  and 
feet,  to  gain  the  wreck,  and  to  preserve  an  existence  that 
had  been  so  much  abused  in  its  hour  of  allotted  proba 
tion. 

"  He  will  soon  know  his  God,  and  learn  that  his  God 
knows  him  !"  murmured  the  cockswain  to  himself.  As  he 
yet  spoke,  the  wreck  of  the  Ariel  yielded  to  an  overwhelm 
ing  sea,  and,  after  a  universal  shudder,  her  timbers  and 
planks  gave  way,  and  were  swept  towards  the  cliffs,  bear 
ing  the  body  of  the  simple-hearted  cockswain  among  the 
ruins. 


Destruction  of  a  Family  of  the  Pilgrims  by  the  Savages. — 
Miss  SEDGWICK. 


ALL  was  joy  in  Mrs.  Fletcher's  dwelling.     "  My 

dear  mother,"  said  Everell,  "  it  is  now  quite  time  to  look 
out  for  father  and  Hope  Leslie.  I  have  turned  the  hourr 
glass  three  times  since  dinner,  and  counted  all  the  sands,  I 
think.  Let  us  all  go  on  the  front  portico,  where  we  caa 
catch  the  first  glimpse  of  them,  as  they  come  past  the  elm 
trees.  Here,  Oneco,"  he  continued,  as  he  saw  assent  in 
his  mother's  smile,  "  help  me  out  with  mother's  rocking 
chair :  rather  rough  rocking," — he  added,  as  he  adjusted 
the  rockers  lengthwise  with  the  logs  that  served  for  the  floor 
ing, — "  but  mother  won't  mind  trifles  just  now.  Ah .' 
blessed  babe,  brother,"  he  continued,  taking  in  his  arms 
the  beautiful  infant,  "  you  shall  come,  too,  even  though 
you  cheat  me  out  of  my  birthright,  and  get  the  first  em 
brace  from  father."  Thus  saying,  he  placed  the  laughing 
infant  in  his  go-cart,  beside  his  mother.  He  then  aided 
his  little  sisters  in  their  arrangement  of  the  playthings  they 
had  brought  forth  to  welcome  and  astonish  Hope  ;  and 
finally  he  made  an  elevated  position  for  Faith  Leslie,  where 
she  might,  he  said,  as  she  ought,  catch  the  very  first  glimpse 
it  her  sister. 
28* 


830  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF   PROSE. 

"  Thank,  thank  you,  Everell,"  said  the  little  girl,  as  sh« 
mounted  her  pinnacle  :  "  if  you  knew  Hope,  you  would 
want  to  see  her  first,  too;  every  body  loves  Hope.  We 
shall  always  have  pleasant  times  when  Hope  gets  here." 

It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  afternoons  at  the  close 
of  the  month  of  May.  The  lagging  Spring  had  at  last 
come  forth  in  all  her  power  ;  "  her  work  of  gladness"  was 
finished,  and  forests,  fields  and  meadows  were  bright  with 
renovated  life.  The  full  Connecticut  swept  triumphantly 
on,  as  if  still  exulting  in  its  release  from  the  fetters  of  win 
ter.  Every  gushing  rill  had  the  spring-note  of  joy.  The 
meadows  were,  for  the  first  time,  enriched  with  patches 
of  English  grain,  which  the  new  settlers  had  sown  scantily, 
oy  way  of  experiment,  prudently  occupying  the  greatest 
portion  of  the  rich  mould  with  the  native  Indian  corn 
This  product  of  our  soil  is  beautiful  io  all  its  progress,  from 
the  moment  when,  as  now  it  studded  the  meadow  with  hil 
locks,  shooting  its  bright  pointed  spear  from  its  mother 
earth,  to  its  maturity,  when  the  long  golden  ear  bursts  from 
the  rustling  leaf. 

The  grounds  about  Mrs.  Fletcher's  house  had  been  pre 
pared  with  the  neatness  of  English  taste ;  and  a  rich  bed 
of  clover,  that  overspread  the  lawn  immediately  before  the 
portico,  already  rewarded  the  industry  of  the  cultivators. 
Over  this  delicate  carpet,  the  domestic  fowls,  the  first  civ 
ilized  inhabitants  of  the  country  of  their  tribe,  were  now 
treading,  picking  their  food  here  and  there  like  dainty  little 
epicures. 

The  scene  had  also  its  minstrels  ;  the  birds,  those  min 
isters  and  worshippers  of  nature,  were  on  the  wing,  filling 
the  a!  r  with  melody,  while,  like  diligent  little  housewives, 
they  ransacked  the  forest  and  field  for  materials  for  their 
house-keeping. 

A  mether,  encircled  by  healthful,  sporting  children,  is 
always  a  beautiful  spectacle — a  spectacle  that  appeals  to 
nature  in  every  human  breast.  Mrs.  Fletcher,  in  obedi 
ence  to  matrimonial  duty,  or,  it  may  be,  from  some  lingering 
of  female  vanity,  had  on  this  occasion  attired  herself  with 
extraordinary  care.  What  woman  does  not  wish  to  look 
handsome  in  the  ey  >s  of  her  husband  ! 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE,  331 

"  Mother,"  said  Everell,  putting  aside  the  exquisitely 
fine  lace  that  shaded  her  cheek,  "  I  do  not  believe  you  look 
ed  more  beautiful  than  you  do  to-day,  when,  as  I  have 
heard,  they  called  you  '  the  rose  of  the  wilderness.'  Our 
little  Mary's  cheek  is  as  round  and  as  bright  as  a  peach, 
but  it  is  not  so  handsome  as  yours,  mother.  Your  heart 
has  sent  this  colour  here,"  he  continued,  kissing  her  tender 
ly  ;  "  it  seems  to  have  come  forth  to  tell  us  that  our  father 
is  near." 

"  It  would  shame  me,  Everell,"  replied  his  mother,  em 
bracing  him  with  a  feeling  that  the  proudest  drawing-room 
belle  might  have  envied,  "  to  take  such  flattery  from  any 
lips  but  thine." — "  Oh,  do  not  call  it  flattery,  mother — • 
look,  Magawisca — for  Heaven's  sake  cheer  up — look,  would 
you  know  mother's  eye  ?  just  turn  it,  mother,  one  minute 
from  that  road — and  her  pale  cheek  too — with  this  rich 
colour  on  it  ?" 

"  Alas !  alas !"  replied  Magawisca,  glancing  her  eyes 
at  Mrs.  Fletcher,  and  then,  as  if  heart  struck,  withdrawing 
them,  "  how  soon  the  flush  of  the  setting  sun  fades  from 
the  evening  cloud !" 

"Oh,  Magawisca!"  said  Everell,  iiipatiently,  "why 
are  you  so  dismal  ?  your  voice  is  too  sweet  for  a  hird  of 
ill-omen.  I  shall  begin  to  think  as  Jennet  says — though 
Jennet  is  no  text  book  for  me — I  shall  begin  to  think  old 
Nelema  has  really  bewitched  you." — "  You  call  me  a  tird 
of  ill-omen,"  replied  Magawisca,  half  proud,  half  sorrow 
ful,  "  and  you  call  the  owl  a  hird  of  ill-omen,  but  we  hold 
him  sacred  ;  he  is  our  sentinel,  and,  when  danger  is  near, 
he  cries,  '  Awake  !  awake  !'  " 

"Magawisca,  you  are  positively  unkind.  Jeremiah's 
lamentations  on  a  holyday  would  not  be  more  out  of  time 
than' your  croaking  is  now.  The  very  skies,  earth,  and  air, 
seem  to  partake  of  our  joy  at  father's  return,  and  you  only 
make  a  discord.  Do  you  think,  if  your  father  was  near,  I 
woulu  not  share  your  joy  .'" 

Tear?  fell  fast  from  Magawisca's  eyes,  but  she  made  no 
reply,  and  Mrs.  Fletcher,  observing  and  compassionating 
her  emotion,  and  thinking  it  probably  arose  from  comparing 
her  orphan  state  to  that  of  the  merry  children  about  her, 
called  her,  and  said,  "  Magawisca,  you  are  neither  a  stran. 


552  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ger  nor  a  servant ;  will  you  not  share  our  joy  ?  lo  yo« 
not  love  us  '" 

"  Love  you  I"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands,  "love 
you  !  I  would  give  my  life  for  you." 

"  We  do  not  ask  your  life,  my  good  girl,"  replied  Mrs. 
Fletcher,  kindly  smiling  on  her,  "  but  a  light  heart,  and 
a  cheerful  look.  A  sad  countenance  doth  not  become  this 
joyful  hour  Go  and  help  Oneco  ;  he  is  quite  out  of  breath 
blowing  those  soap  bubbles  for  the  children."  Oneco 
smiled,  and  shook  his  head,  and  continued  lo  send  off  one 
after  another  of  the  prismatic  globes,  and,  as  they  rose  and 
floated  on  the  air,  and  brightened  with  the  many-colour 
ed  ray,  the  little  girls  clapped  their  hands,  and  the  baby 
stretched  his  to  grasp  the  brilliant  vapour.  "  Oh  !"  said 
Magawisca,  impetuously  covering  her  eyes,  "  I  do  not 
like  to  see  any  thing  so  beautiful  pass  so  quickly  away." 

Scarcely  had  she  uttered  these  words,  when  suddenly, 
as  if  the  earth  had  opened  on  them,  three  Indian  warriors 
darted  from  the  forest,  and  pealed  on  the  air  their  horrible 
yells. 

"  My  father  !  my  father  !"  burst  from  the  lips  of  Ma 
gawisca  and  Oneco.  Faith  Leslie  sprang  towards  the  In 
dian  boy,  and  clung  fast  to  him,  and  the  children  clustered 
about  their  mother ;  she  instinctively  caught  her  infant, 
and  held  it  close  within  her  arms,  as  if  their  ineffectual 
shelter  were  a  rampart. 

Magawisca  uttered  a  cry  of  agony,  and,  springing  for 
ward  with  her  arms  uplifted,  as  if  deprecating  his  approach, 
she  sunk  down  at  her  father's  feet,  and,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  Save  them  ! — save  them  !"  she  cried  ;  "  the  mother — the 
children — oh  !  they  are  all  good  :  take  vengeance  on  your 
enemies,  but  spare,  spare  our  friends  !  our  benefactors  !  I 
bleed  when  they  are  struck;  oh  !  command  them  to  stop  !" 
she  screamed,  looking  to  the  companions  of  her  father,  who, 
unchecked  by  her  cries,  were  pressing  on  to  their  deadly 
work. 

Mononotto  was  silent  and  motionless :  his  eye  glanced 
wildly  from  Magawisca  to  Oneco.  Magawisca  replied  to 
the  glance  of  fire  :  "  Yes,  they  have  sheltered  us — they 
have  spread  the  wing  of  love  over  us — save  them — save 
them — oh  !  it  will  be  too  late,"  she  cried,  springing  fron 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  333 

her  father,  whose  silence  and  fixedness  showed  that,  if  his 
better  nature  rebelled  against  the  work  of  revenge,  there 
was  no  relenting  of  purpose.  Magawisca  darted  before  the 
Indian,  who  was  advancing  towards  Mrs.  Fletcher  with  au 
uplifted  hatchet.  "  You  shall  hew  me  to  pieces  ere  you 
touch  her,"  she  said,  and  planted  herself  as  a  shield  before 
her  benefactress.  The  warrior's  obdurate  heart,  untouch 
ed  by  the  sight  of  the  helpless  mother  and  her  little  ones, 
was  thrilled  by  the  courage  of  the  heroic  girl  •  he  paused, 
and  grimly  smiled  on  her,  when  his  companion,  crying, 
"  Hasten !  the  dogs  will  be  on  us !"  levelled  a  deadly  blow 
at  Mrs.  Fletcher ;  but  his  uplifted  arm  was  penetrated  by 
a  musket  shot,  and  the  hatchet  fell  harmless  to  the  floor. 

"  Courage,  mother !"  cried  Everell,  reloading  the  piece ; 
but  neither  courage  nor  celerity  could  avail :  the  second 
Indian  sprang  upon  him,  threw  him  on  the  floor,  wrested 
his  musket  from  him,  and,  brandishing  his  tomahawk  over 
his  head,  he  would  have  aimed  the  fatal  stroke,  when" a 
cry  from  Mononotto  arrested  his  arm. 

Everell  extricated  himself  from  his  grasp,  and,  a  ray  of 
hope  flashing  into  his  mind,  he  seized  a  bugle  horn,  which 
hung  beside  the  door,  and  winded  it.  This  was  the  con 
ventional  signal  of  alarm,  and  he  sent  forth  a  blast  long 
and  loud — a  death-cry. 

Mrs.  Grafton  and  her  attendants  were  just  mounting 
their  horses  to  return  home.  Digby  listened  for  a  moment : 
then,  exclaiming,  "  It  comes  from  our  i.  <ter's  dwelling  ! 
ride  for  your  life,  Hutton !"  he  tossjd  away  a  bandbox  that 
encumbered  him,  and  spurred  his  horse  to  its  utmost  speed. 

The  alarm  was  spread  through  the  village,  and,  in  a  brief 
space,  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  six  armed  men,  was  pressing 
towards  the  fatal  scene.  In  the  mean  time  the  trage/iy 
was  proceeding  at  Bethel.  Mrs.  Fletcher's  senses  had 
been  stunned  with  terror.  She  had  neither  spoken  nor 
moved  after  she  grasped  her  infant.  Everell's  gallant  in* 
tei  position  restored  a  momentary  consciousness ;  she  scream 
ed  to  him,  "  Fly;  Everell,  my  son,  fly  ;  for  your  father's 
eake,  fly !" 

"  Never !"  he  replied,  springing  to  his  mother's  side. 

The  sivages,  always  rapid  in  their  movements,  wera 
«ow  aware  that  their  safety  depended  on  despatch.  "  Fin- 


834  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Ish  your  work,  warriors !"  cried  Mononotto.  Obedient  to 
the  command,  and  infuriated  by  his  bleeding  wound,  the 
Indian,  who,  on  receiving  the  shot,  had  staggered  back, 
and  leaned  against  the  wall,  now  sprang  forward,  and 'tore 
the  infant  from  its  mother's  breast.  She  shrieked,  and 
in  that  shriek  passed  the  agony  of  death.  She  was  un 
conscious  that  her  son,  putting  forth  a  strength  beyond  na 
ture,  for  a  moment  kept  the  Indian  at  bay  ;  she  neither 
saw  nor  felt  the  knife  struck  at  her  own  heart.  She  felt 
not  the  arms  of  her  defenders,  Everell  and  Magawisca,  as 
they  met  around  her  neck.  She  fainted  and  fell  to  the  floor, 
dragging  her  impotent  protectors  with  her. 

The  savage,  in  his  struggle  with  Everell,  had  tossed  the 
infant  boy  to  the  ground  :  he  fell,  quite  unharmed,  on  the 
turf  at  Mononotto's  feet ;  there,  raising  his  head,  and  look 
ing  up  into  the  chieftain's  face,  he  probably  perceived  a 
gleam  of  mercy  ;  for,  with  the  quick  instinct  of  infancy, 
that  with  unerring  sagacity  directs  its  appeal,  he  clasped 
the  naked  leg  of  the  savage  with  one  arm,  and  stretched 
the  other  towards  him  with  a  piteous  supplication,  that  no 
words  could  have  expressed. 

Mononotto's  heart  melted  within  him  :  he  stooped  to 
raise  the  sweet  suppliant,  when  one  of  the  Mohawks  fierce 
ly  seized  him,  tossed  him  wildly  around  his  head,  and  dash 
ed  him  on  the  door-stone.  But  the  silent  prayer,  perhaps 
the  celestial  inspiration  of  the  innocent  creature,  was  not 
lost.  "  We  have  had  blood  enough,"  cried  Mononotto  ; 
"  you  have  well  avenged  me,  brothers." 

Then,  looking  at  Oneco,  who  had  remained  in  one  cor 
ner  of  the  portico,  clasping  Faith  Leslie  in  his  arms,  he 
commanded  him  to  follow  him  with  the  child.  Everell  was 
torn  from  the  lifeless  bodies  of  his  mother  and  sisters,  and 
dragged  into  the  forest.  Magawisca  uttered  one  cry  of 
agony  and  despair,  as  she  looked  for  the  last  time  on  the 
bloody  scene,  and  then  followed  her  father. 

As  they  passed  the  boundary  of  the  cleared  ground, 
Mononotto  tore  from  Oneco  his  English  dress,  and,  casting 
it  from  him,  "-Thus  perish,"  he  said,  "  every  mark  of  the 
captivity  of  my  children.  Thou  shalt  return  to  our  forests," 
he  continued,  wrapping  a  skin  around  him,  "  with  the 
badge  of  thy  people."  *»**»»•«*» 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  335 

We  hope  our  readers  will  not  think  we  have  wantonly 
aported  with  their  feelings,  by  drawing  a  picture  of  calam 
ity  that  only  exists  in  the  fictitious  tale.  No — such  events 
as  we  have  feebly  related  were  common  in  our  early  an 
nals,  and  attended  by  horrors  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  the  imagination  to  exaggerate.  Not  only  families,  but 
villages,  were  cut  off  by  the  most  dreaded  of  all  foes — the 
ruthless,  vengeful  savage. 

In  the  quiet  possession  of  the  blessings  transmitted,  we 
are,  perhaps,  in  danger  of  forgetting  or  undervaluing  the 
sufferings  by  which  they  were  obtained.  We  forget  that 
the  noble  pilgrims  lived  and  endured  for  us ;  that,  when 
they  came  to  the  wilderness,  they  said  truly,  though,  it  may 
he,  somewhat  quaintly,  that  they  turned  their  backs  on 
Egypt.*  They  did  virtually  renounce  all  dependence  on 
earthly  support ;  they  left  the  land  of  their  birth,  of  their 
homes,  of  their  fathers'  sepulchres ;  they  sacrificed  ease 
and  preferment,  and  all  the  delights  of  sense — and  for 
what  ? — to  open  for  themselves  an  earthly  paradise  ?— to 
dress  their  bowers  of  pleasure,  and  rejoce  with  their  wives 
and  children  ?  No  ! — they  came  not  for  themselves  ;  they 
lived  not  to  themselves.  An  exiled  and  suffering  people, 
they  came  forth  in  the  dignity  of  the  chosen  servants  of 
the  Lord,  to  open  the  forests  to  the  sun-beam,  and  to  the 
light  of  the  Sun  of  righteousness ;  to  restore  man,  man, 
oppressed  and  trampled  on  by  his  fellow,  to  religious  and 
civil  liberty  and  equal  rights  ;  to  replace  the  creatures  of 
God  on  their  natural  level  ;  to  bring  down  the  hills,  and 
make  smooth  the  rough  places,  which  the  pride  and  cruel 
ty  of  m-\n  had  wrought  on  the  fair  creation  of  the  Father 
of  all. 

What  was  their  reward  ?  Fortune  ? — distinctions  ? — the 
sweet  charities  of  home  ?  No — but  their  feet  were  plant 
ed  on  the  mount  of  vision,  anil  they  saw,  with  sublime  joy, 
i  multitude  of  people  where  the  solitary  savage  roamed 
the  forest ;  the  forest  vanished,  and  pleasant  villages  and 
busy  cities  appeared  ;  the  tangled  foot-path  expanded  to 
the  thronged  highway;  the  consecrated  church  was  planted 
on  the  rock  of  heathen  sacrifice. 

And,  that  we  might  realize  this  vision, — enter  into  this 
piomised  land  of  faith, — they  endured  hardship,  and  braved 


I 


336  COMMON-PLACE    liOOK    OF    PROSE. 

death,  deeming,  as  said  one  of  their  company,  that  "  he  is 
not  worthy  to  live  at  all,  who,  for  fear  of  danger  or  death, 
shunneth  his  country's  service  or  his  own  honour — since 
death  is  inevitable,  and  the  fame  of  virtue  immortal  " 

If  these  were  the  fervours  of  enthusiasm,  it  was  an  en 
thusiasm  kindled  and  fed  by  the  holy  flame  that  glows  on 
the  altar  of  God;  an  .  enthusiasm  that  never  abates,  but 
gathers  life  and  strength  as  the  immortal  soul  expands  in 
the  image  of  its  Creator. 


The  Emigrant's  Mode  in  Ohio. — FLINT 

IN  making  remoter  journeys  from  the  town,  beside  the 
rivulets,  and  in  the  little  bottoms  not  yet  in  cultivation,  I 
discerned  the  smoke  rising  in  the  woods,  and  heard  the 
strokes  of  the  axe,  the  tinkling  of  bells,  and  the  baying  of 
dogs,  and  saw  the  newly-arrived  emigrant  either  raising 
his  log  cabin,  or  just  entered  into  possession.  It  has  afford 
ed  me  more  pleasing  reflections,  a  happier  train  of  associ 
ations,  to  contemplate  these  beginnings  of  social  toil  in  the 
wide  wilderness,  than,  in  our  more  cultivated  regions,  to 
come  in  view  of  the  most  sumptuous  mansion.  Nothing 
can  be  more  beautiful  than  these  little  bottoms,  upon  which 
these  emigrants  deposit,  if  I  may  so  say,  their  household 
gods.  Springs  burst  forth  in  the  intervals  between  the 
high  and  low  grounds.  The  trees  and  shrubs  are  of  the 
most  beautiful  kind.  The  brilliant  red-bird  is  seen  flitting 
among  the  shrubs,  or,  perched  on  a  tree,  seems  welcoming, 
in  her  mellow  notes,  the  emigrant  to  his  abode.  Flocks 
of  paroquets  are  glittering  among  the  trees,  and  gray  squir 
rels  are  skipping  from  branch  to  branch.  In  the  midst  of 
these  primeval  scenes,  the  patient  and  laborious  father  fixes 
his  family.  In  a  few  weeks  they  have  reared  a  comforta 
ble  cabin  and  other  outbuildings.  Pass  this  place  in  two 
years,  and  you  will  see  extensive  fields  of  corn  and  wheat, 
a  young  and  thrifty  orchard,  fruit  trees  of  all  kinds, — the 
guarantee  of  present  abundant  subsistence,  and  of  future 
luxury.  Pass  it  in  ten  years,  and  the  log  buildings  will 
have  disappeared.  The  shrubs  and  forest  trees  will  be 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE.  337 

gone.  The  Arcadian  aspect  of  bumble  and  retired  abun 
dance  and  comfort  will  have  given  place  to  a  brick  house, 
with  accompaniments  like  those  that  attend  the  same  kind 
of  house  in  the  older  countries.  By  this  time,  the  occu 
pant,  who  came  there,  perhaps,  with  a  small  sum  of  money, 
and  moderate  expectations,  from  humble  life,  and  with  no 
more  than  a  common  school  education,  has  been  made,  in 
succession,  member  of  the  assembly,  justice  of  the  peace, 
and  finally  county  judge.  I  admit  that  the  first  residence 
among  the  trees  affords  the  most  agreeable  picture  to  my 
mind ;  and  that  there  is  an  inexpressible  charm  in  the 
pastoral  simplicity  of  those  years,  before  pride  and  self- 
consequence  have  banished  the  repose  of  their  Eden,  and 
when  you  witness  the  first  strugglings  of  social  toil  with 
the  barren  luxuriance  of  nature. 


Melancholy  Decay  of  the  Indians. — CASS. 

NEITHER  the  government  nor  people  of  the  United 
States  have  any  wish  to  conceal  from  themselves,  nor  from 
the  world,  that  there  is  upon  their  frontiers  a  wretched, 
forlorn  people,  looking  to  them  for  support  and  protection, 
and  possessing  strong  claims  upon  their  justice  and  human 
ity.  Those  people  received  our  forefathers  in  a  spirit  of 
friendship,  aided  them  to  endure  privations  and  sufferings, 
and  taught  them  how  to  provide  for  many  of  the  wants  with 
which  they  were  surrounded.  The  Indians  were  then  strong, 
and  we  were  weak ;  and,  without  looking  at  the  change 
which  has  occurred  in  any  spirit  of  morbid  affectation,  but 
with  the  feelings  of  an  age  accustomed  to  observe  great  mu 
tations  in  the  fortunes  of  nations  and  of  individuals,  we  may 
express  our  regret  that  they  have  lost  so  much  of  what 
we  have  gained.  The  prominent  points  of  their  history 
are  before  the  world,  and  will  go  down  unchanged  to  pos 
terity.  In  the  revolution  of  a  few  ages,  this  fair  portion 
of  the  continent,  which  was  theirs,  has  passed  into  our  pos 
session.  The  forests,  which  afforded  them  food  and  security, 
where  were  their  cradles,  their  homes  and  their  graves, 
29 


338  COMMON-PLACI     BOOK    OF    PROSE. 

have  disappeared,  or  are  disappearing,  before  the  progren 
of  civilization. 

We  have  extinguished  their  council  fires,  and  ploughed 
up  the  bones  of  their  fathers.  Their  population  has  di 
minished  with  lamentable  rapidity.  Those  tribes  that  re 
main,  like  the  lone  column  of  a  falling  temple,  exhibit  but 
the  sad  relics  of  their  former  strength  ;  and  many  others 
live  only  in  the  names,  which  have  reached  through  the 
earlier  accounts  of  travellers  and  historians.  The  causes, 
which  have  produced  this  physical  desolation,  are  yet  in 
constant  and  active  operation,  and  threaten  to  leave  us,  at 
no  distant  day,  without  a  living  proof  of  Indian  sufferings, 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  immense  desert,  which  sweeps 
along  the  base  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Nor  can  we 
console  ourselves  with  the  reflection,  that  their  physical 
condition  has  been  counterbalanced  by  any  melioration  in 
their  moral  condition.  We  have  taught  them  neither  how 
to  live,  nor  how  to  die.  They  have  been  equally  station 
ary  in  their  manners,  habits  and  opinions  ;  in  every  thing 
but  their  numbers  and  their  happiness  ;  and,  although  ex 
isting,  for  more  than  six  generations,  in  contact  with  a  civ 
ilized  people,  they  owe  to  them  no  one  valuable  improve 
ment  in  the  arts,  nor  a  single  principle  which  can  restrain 
their  passions,  or  give  hope  to  despondence,  motive  to  ex 
ertion,  or  confidence  to  virtue. 

Efforts,  however,  have  not  been  wanting  to  reclaim  the 
Indians  from  their  forlorn  condition  ;  but  with  what  hope 
less  results,  we  have  only  to  cast  our  eyes  upon  them  to 
ascertain.  Whether  the  cause  of  this  failure  must  be 
sought  in  the  principles  of  these  efforts,  or  in  their  appli 
cation,  has  not  yet  been  satisfactorily  determined  ;  but  the 
important  experiments,  which  are  now  making,  will  proba 
bly,  ere  long,  put  the  question  at  rest.  During  more  than 
a  century,  great  zeal  was  displayed  by  the  French  court, 
and  by  many  of  the  dignified'French  ecclesiastics,  for  the 
conversion  of  the  American  aborigines  in  Canada ;  and 
learned,  and  pious,  and  zealous  men  devoted  themselves, 
with  noble  ardour  and  intrepidity,  to  this  generous  work  : 
at  what  immense  personal  sacrifices,  we  can  never  fully 
estimate.  And  it  is  melancholy  to  contrast  their  privations 
and  sufferings,  living  and  dying,  with  the  fleeting  memori 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE  339 

&]s  of  their  labours.  A  few  external  ceremonies,  affecting 
neither  the  head  nor  the  heart,  and  which  are  retained  like 
idle  legends  among  some  of  the  aged  Indians,  are  all  that 
remain  to  preserve  the  recollection  of  their  spiritual  fa 
thers  ;  and  I  have  stood  upon  the  ruins  of  St.  Ignace,  on 
the  shores  of  Lake  Huron,  their  principal  missionary  estab 
lishment,  indulging  those  melancholy  reflections,  which 
must  always  press  upon  the  mind,  amid  the  fallen  monu 
ments  of  human  piety. 


Object  and  Success  of  the  Missionary  Enterprise. — 
WAYL.AND. 

OUR  object  will  not  have  been  accomplished  till  the 
tomahawk  shall  be  buried  forever,  and  the  tree  of  peace 
spread  its  broad  branches  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific ; 
until  a  thousand  smiling  villages  shall  be  reflected  from 
the  waves  of  the  Missouri,  and  the  distant  valleys  of  th«. 
West  echo  with  the  song  of  the  reaper  ;  till  the  wilderness 
and  the  solitary  place  shall  have  been  glad  for  us,  and  the 
desert  has  rejoiced,  and  blossomed  as  the  rose. 

Our  labours  are  not  to  cease,  until  the  last  slave-shij 
shall  have  visited  the  coast  of  Africa,  and,  the  nations  of 
Europe  and  America  having  long  since  redressed  her  ag 
gravated  wrongs,  Ethiopia,  from  the  Mediterranean  to  the 
Cape,  shall  have  stretched  forth  her  hand  unto  God. 

How  changed  will  then  be  the  face  of  Asia !  Bramins, 
and  sooders,  and  castes,  and  shasters,  will  have  passed  away, 
like  the  mist  which  rolls  up  the  mountain's  side  before  the 
rising  glories  of  a  summer's  morning,  while  the  land  on 
which  it  rested,  shining  forth  in  all  its  loveliness,  shall, 
from  its  numberless  habitations,  send  forth  the  high  praises 
of  God  and  the  Lamb.  The  Hindoo  mother  will  gaze  upon 
her  infant  with  the  same  tenderness,  which  throbs  in  the 
breast  of  any  one  of  you  who  now  hears  me,  and  the  Hin 
doo  son  will  pour  into  the  wounded  bosom  of  his  wMowed 
parent  the  oil  of  peace  and  consolation. 

In  a  word,  point  us  to  the  loveliest  village  that  smiles 
upon  a  Scottish  or  New  England  landscape,  and  compare 


840  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSK. 

it  witli  the  filthiness  and  brutality  of  a  Caffrarian  kraal, 
and  we  tell  you,  that  our  object  is  to  render  that  Caffrari 
an  kraal  as  happy  and  as  gladsome  as  that  Scottish  or  New 
England  village.  Point  us  to  the  spot  on  the  face  of  th« 
earth,  where  liberty  is  best  understood  and  most  perfectly 
enjoyed,  where  intellect  shoots  forth  in  its  richest  luxuri 
ance,  and  where  all  the  kindlier  feelings  of  the  heart  are 
constantly  seen  in  their  most  graceful  exercise  ;  point  us 
to  the  loveliest,  and  happiest  neighbourhood  in  the  world, 
on  which  we  dwell ;  and  we  tell  you,  that  our  object  is  to 
render  this  whole  earth,  with  all  its  nations,  and  kindreds, 
atod  tongues,  and  people,  as  happy,  nay,  happier,  than  that 
neighbourhood. 

We  do  believe,  that  God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he  gave 
his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in  him 
should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life.  Our  object  is 
to  convey  to  those  who  are  perishing  the  news  of  this  sal 
vation.  It  is  to  furnish  every  family  upon  the  face  of  the 
whole  earth  with  the  Word  of  God  written  in  its  own  lan 
guage,  and  to  send  to  every  neighbourhood  a  preacher  of 
the  cross  of  Christ.  Our  object  will  not  be  accomplished 
until  every  idol  temple  shall  have  been  utterly  abolished, 
and  a  temple  of  Jehovah  erected  in  its  room  ;  until  this 
earth,  instead  of  being  a  theatre,  on  which  immortal  beings 
are  preparing  by  crime  for  eternal  condemnation,  shall  be 
come  one  universal  temple,  in  which  the  children  of  men 
are  learning  the  anthems  of  the  blessed  above,  and  be 
coming  meet  to  join  the  general  assembly  and  church  of 
the  first  born,  whose  names  are  written  in  heaven.  Oui 
design  will  not  be  completed  .until 

"  One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 
'  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us  ;' 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other ;  and  the  mountain  tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy, 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round." 

The  object  of  the  missionary  enterprise  embraces  every 
child  of  Adam.  It  is  vast  as  the  race  to  whom  its  opera 
tions  are  of  necessity  limited.  It  would  confer  upon  every 
individual  on  earth  all  that  intellectual  or  moral  cultivation 
can  bestow.  It  would  rescue  a  world  from  the  indignation 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  341 

and  wrath,  tribulation  and  anguish,  reserved  for  every  son 
of  man  that  doeth  evil,  and  give  it  a  title  to  glory,  honour, 
and  immortality.  You  see,  then,  that  our  object  is,  not 
only  to  affect  every  individual  of  the  species,  but  to  affec 
him  in  the  momentous  extremes  of  infinite  happiness  and 
infinite  wo.  And  now,  we  ask,  what  object,  ever  under 
taken  by  man,  can  compare  with  this  same  design  of  evan 
gelizing  the  world  ?  Patriotism  itseli  fades  away  before 
it,  and  acknowledges  the  supremacy  of  an  enterprise,  which 
seizes,  with  so  strong  a  grasp,  upon  both  the  temporal  and 
eternal  destinies  of  the  whole  family  of  man. 

And  now,  my  hearers,  deliberately  consider  the  nature 
of  the  missionary  enterprise.  Reflect  upon  the  dignity  of 
its  object ;  the  high  moral  and  intellectual  powers  which 
are  to  be  called  forth  in  its  execution  ;  the  simplicity,  be 
nevolence,  and  efficacy,  of  the  means  by  which  all  this  is 
to  be  achieved  ;  and  we  ask  you,  Does  not  every  other  en 
terprise,  to  which  man  ever  put  forth  his  strength,  dwindle 
into  insignificance  before  that  of  preaching  Christ  crucified 
to  a  lost  and  perishing  world  ? 

Engaged  in  such  an  object,  and  supported  by  such  an 
assurance,  you  may  readily  suppose,  we  can  very  well 
bear  the  contempt  of  those  who  would  point  at  us  the  fin 
ger  of  scorn.  It  is  written,  "  In  the  last  days  there  shall  be 
scoffers."  We  regret  that  it  should  be  so.  We  regret  that 
men  should  oppose  an  enterprise,  of  which  the  chief  object 
is,  to  turn  sinners  unto  holiness.  We  pity  them,  and  we 
will  pray  for  them.  For  we  consider  their  situation  far 
other  than  enviable.  We  recollect  that  it  was  once  said 
by  the  Divine  Missionary,  to  the  first  band  which  he  com 
missioned,  "  He  that  despiseth  you  despiseth  me,  and 
he  that  despiseth  me  despiseth  him  that  sent  me."  So 
that  this  very  contempt  may,  at  last,  involve  them  in  a 
controversy  infinitely  more  serious  than  they  at  present 
anticipate.  The  reviler  of  missions,  and  the  missioraryof 
the  cross,  must  both  stand  before  the  judgment  seat  of  him 
who  said,  "Go  ye  into  all  the  world,  and  preach  the  Gospel 
to  every  creature."  It  is  affecting  to  think,  that,  whilst 
the  one,  surrounded  by  the  nation  who,  through  his  instru 
mentality,  have  been  rescued  from  everlasting  death,  shall 
receive  the  plaudit,  "  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  serv  ant!" 
29* 


842  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  I'KOSE. 

the  other  may  be  numbered  among  those  despisers,  who 
wonder  and  perish.     "  0  that  they  might  know,  even  in 
this  their  day,  the  things  which  belong  to  their  peace,  be 
fore  they  are  hidden  from  their  eyes!" 

You  can  also  easily  perceive  how  it  is  that  we  are  not 
soon  disheartened  by  those  who  tell  us  of  the  difficulties, 
nay,  the  hopelessness,  of  our  undertaking.  They  may 
point  us  to  countries  once  the  seat  of  the  church,  now 
overspread  with  Mohammedan  delusion ;  or,  bidding  us 
look  at  nations,  who  once  believed  as  we  do,  now  contend 
ing  for  what  we  consider  fatal  error,  they  may  assure  us 
that  our  cause  is  declining.  To  all  this  we  have  two  an 
swers.  First,  the  assumption  that  our  cause  is  declining, 
is  utterly  gratuitous.  We  think  it  not  difficult  to  prove, 
that  the  distinctive  principles  we  so  much  venerate,  never 
swayed  so  powerful  an  influence  over  the  destinies  of  the 
human  race  as  at  this  very  moment.  Point  us  to  those 
nations  of  the  earth,  to  whom  moral  and  intellectual  culti 
vation,  inexhaustible  resources,  progress  in  arts,  and  saga 
city  in  council,  have  assigned  the  highest  rank  in  political 
importance,  and  you  point  us  to  nations  whose  religious 
opinions  are  most  closely  allied  to  those  we  cherish.  Be 
sides,  when  was  there  a  period,  since  the  days  of  the 
apostles,  in  which  so  many  converts  have  been  made  to 
these  principles,  as  have  been  made,  both  from  Christian 
and  Pagan  nations,  within  the  last  five-and-twenty  years  ? 
Never  did  the  people  of  the  saints  of  the  Most  High  look 
so  much  like  going  forth,  in  serious  earnest,  to  take  pos 
session  of  the  kingdom,  and  dominion,  and  the  greatness  of 
the  kingdom,  under  the  whole  heaven,  as  at  the  present 
day.  We  see,  then,  nothing  in  the  signs  of  the  times, 
which  forebodes  a  failure,  but  every  thing  which  promises 
that  our  undertaking  will  prosper.  But,  secondly,  suppose 
the  cause  did  seem  declining  ;  we  should  see  no  reason  to 
relax  our  exertions  ;  for  Jesus  Christ  has  said,  "  Preach  the 
Gospel  to  every  creature."  Appearances,  whether  pros 
perous  or  adverse,  alter  not  the  obligation  to  obey  a  posi 
tive  command  of  Almighty  God. 

Again,  suppose  all  that  is  affirmed  were  true.  If  it  must 
be,  let  it  be.  Let  the  dark  cloud  of  infidelity  overspread 
E'jrope,  cross  the  ocean,  and  cover  our  own  beloved  land 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE.  343 

Let  nation  after  nation  swerve  from  the  faith  Let  iniqui 
ty  abound,  and  the  love  of  many  wax  cold,  even  until  there 
is  on  the  face  of  the  earth  but  one  pure  church  of  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.  All  we  ask  is,  that  we 
may  be  members  of  that  one  church.  God  grant  that  we 
may  throw  ourselves  into  this  Thermopylae  of  the  moral 
universe. 

But,  even  then,  we  should  have  no  fear  that  the  church 
of  God  would  be  exterminated.  We  would  call  to  remem 
brance  the  years  of  the  right  hand  of  the  Most  High.  We 
would  recollect  there  was  once  a  time,  when  the  whole 
church  of  Christ  not  only  could  be,  but  actually  was,  gath 
ered  with  one  accord  in  one  place.  It  was  then  that  that 
p]?ce  was  shaken  as  with  a  rushing,  mighty  wind,  and  they 
were  all  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost.  That  same  day,  three 
thousand  were  added  to  the  Lord.  Soon  we  hear  they 
have  filled  Jerusalem  with  their  doctrine.  The  church 
has  commenced  her  march.  Samaria  has  with  one  accord 
believed  the  Gospel.  Antioch  has  become  obedient  to  the 
faith.  The  name  of  Christ  has  been  proclaimed  through 
out  Asia  Minor.  The  temples  of  the  gods,  as  though 
smitten  by  an  invisible  hand,  are  deserted.  The  citizens 
of  Ephesus  cry  out  in  despair,  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians  !"  Licentious  Corinth  is  purified  by  the  preach 
ing  of  Christ  crucified.  Persecution  puts  forth  her  arm  to 
arrest  the  spreading  "  superstition."  But  the  progress  of 
the  faith  cannot  be  stayed.  The  church  of  God  advances 
unhurt,  amidst  rocks  and  dungeons,  persecutions  and  death  ; 
yea,  "  smiles  at  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point." 
She  has  entered  Italy,  and  appears  before  the  walls  of  the 
Eternal  City.  Idolatry  falls  prostrate  at  her  approach. 
Her  ensigns  float  in  triumph  over  the  capitpl.  She  has 
placed  upon  her  brow  the  diadem  of  the  Caesars  ' 


Blanc  in  the  Gleam  of  Sunset. — GRISCOM. 

WE  arrived,  before  sundown,  at  the  village  of  St.  Mar 
tin,  where  we  were  to  stay  for  the  night.  The  evening 
being  remarkably  fine,  we  crossed  the  Arve  on  a  beautiful 


344  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Abridge,  and  walked  over  to  Salenche,  a  very  considerable 
village,  opposite  to  St.  Martin,  and  ascended  a  hill  to  view 
the  effect  of  the  sun's  declining  light  upon  Mont  Blanc. 
The  scene  was  truly  grand.  The  broad  range  of  the  moun 
tain  was  fully  before  us,  of  a  pure  and  almost  glowing 
white,  apparently  to  its  very  base  ;  and  which,  contrasted 
with  the  brown  tints  of  the  adjoining  r>ountains,  greatly 
heightened  the  novelty  of  the  scene.  We  could  scarcely 
avoid  the  conclusion,  that  this  vast  pile  of  snow  was  very 
near  us,  aod  yet  its  base  was  not  less  than  fifteen,  and  its 
summit,  probably,  more  than  twenty  miles  from  the  place 
where  we  stood.  The  varying  rays  of  light  produced  by 
reflection  from  the  snow,  passing,  as  the  sun's  rays  de 
clined,  from  a  brilliant  white  through  purple  and  pink,  and 
ending  in  the  gentle  light,  which  the  snow  gives  after  the 
sun  has  set,  afforded  an  exhibition  in  optics  upon  a  scale  of 
grandeur,  which  no  other  region  in  the  world  could  proba 
bly  excel.  Never  in  my  life  have  my  feelings  been  so 
powerfully  affected  by  merely  scenery  as  they  were  in 
this  day's  excursion.  The  excitement,  though  attended 
by  sensations  awfully  impressive,  is  nevertheless  so  finely 
attempered  by  the  glow  of  novelty  incessantly  mingled 
with  astonishment  and  admiration,  as  to  produce  on  the 
whole  a  feast  of  delight. 

A  lew  years  ago,  I  stood  upon  Table  Rock,  and  placed 
my  cane  in  the  descending  flood  of  Niagara.  Its  tremen 
dous  roar  almost  entirely  precluded  conversation  with  the 
friend  at  my  side  ;  while  its  whirlwind  of  mist  and  foam 
filled  the  air  to  a  great  distance  around  me.  The  rainbow 
sported  in  its  bosom  ;  the  gulf  below  exhibited  the  wild 
fury  of  an  immense  boiling  caldron ;  while  the  rapids 
above,  for  the  space  of  nearly  a  mile,  appeared  like  a  moun 
tain  of  billows  chafing  and  dashing  against  each  other  with 
thundering  impetuosity,  in  their  eager  strife  to  gain  the 
precipice",  and  take  the  awful  leap.  In  contemplating  this 
scene,  my  imagination  and  my  heart  were  filled  with  sub 
lime  and  tender  emotions.  The  soul  seemed  to  be  brought 
a  step  nearer  to  the  presence  of  that  incomprehensible  Be 
ing,  whose  spirit  dwelt  in  every  feature  of  the  cataract,  and 
directed  all  its  amazing  energies.  Yet  in  the  scenery  of 
Ms  day  there  was  more  of  a  pervading  sense  of  awlul  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  345 

unlimited  grandeur  :  mountain  piled  upon  mountain  in  end 
less  continuity  throughout  the  whole  extent,  and  crowned 
by  the  brightest  effulgence  of  an  evening  sun,  upon  the 
everlasting  snows  of  the  highest  pinnacle  of  Europe. 


Contrast  in  the  Characters  of  Cicero  and  Jltticus. — 

BUCKMINSTER. 

THE  history  of  letters  does  not,  at  this  moment,  suggest 
to  me  a  more  fortunate  parallel  between  the  effects  of  active 
and  of  inactive  learning,  than  in  the  well  known  charac 
ters  of  Cicero  and  Atticus  Let  me  hold  them  up  to  your 
observation,  not  because  Cicero  was  faultless,  or  Atticus 
always  to  blame,  but  because,  like  you,  they  were  the  cit 
izens  of  a  republic.  They  lived  in  an  age  of  learning  and 
of  dangers,  and  acted  upon  opposite  principles,  when  Rome 
was  to  be  saved,  if  saved  at  all,  by  the  virtuous  energy  of 
her  most  accomplished  minds. 

If  we  look  now  for  Atticus,  we  find  him  in  the  quiet  of 
his  library,  surrounded  by  his  books ;  while  Cicero  was 
passing  through  the  regular  course  of  public  honours  and 
services,  where  all  the  treasures  of  his  mind  were  at  the 
command  of  his  country.  If  we  follow  them,  we  find  At 
ticus  pleasantly  wandering  among  the  ruins  of  Athens, 
purchasing  up  statues  and  antiques ;  while  Cicero  was  at 
home,  blasting  the  projects  of  Catiline,  and,  at  the  head  of 
the  senate,  like  the  tutelary  spirit  of  his  country,  as  the 
storm  was  gathering,  secretly  watching  the  doubtful  move 
ments  of  Cajsar.  If  we  look  to  the  period  of  the  civil 
ivars,  we  find  Atticus  always  reputed,  indeed,  to  belong  to 
the  party  of  the  friends  of  liberty,  yet  originally  dear  to 
Sylla,  and  intimate  with  Clodius,  recommending  himself 
to  Caesar  by  his  neutrality,  courted  by  Antony,  and  con 
nected  with  Octavius,  poorly  concealing  the  Epicureanism 
of  his  principles  under  the  ornaments  of  literature  and  the 
'plendour  of  his  benefactions  ;  till  at  last  this  inoffensive 
and  polished  friend  of  successive  usurpers  hastens  out  of 
life  to  escape  from  the  pains  of  a  lingering  disease.  Turn 


846  COMMON-PLACE    1JOOK  OF  PROSE. 

now  to  Cicero,  the  only  great  man  at  whom  Caesar  always 
trembled,  the  only  great  man,  whom  falling  Rome  did  not 
fear.  Do  you  tell  me  that  his  hand  once  offered  incense 
to  the  dictator  ?  Remember,  it  was  the  gift  of  gratitude 
only,  and  not  of  servility  ;  for  the  same  hand  launched  its 
indignation  against  the  infamous  Antony,  whose  power  was 
more  to  be  dreaded,  and  whose  revenge  pursued  him  till 
this  father  of  his  country  gave  his  head  to  the  executioner 
without  a  struggle,  for  he  knew  that  Rome  was  no  longer 
to  be  saved.  If,  my  friends,  you  would  feel  what  learn 
ing,  and  genius,  and  virtue,  should  aspire  to  in  a  day  of 
peril  and  depravity,  when  you  are  tired  of  the  factions  of 
the  city,  the  battles  of  Caesar,  the  crimes  of  the  triumvi 
rate,  and  the  splendid  court  of  Augustus,  do  not  go  and 
repose  in  the  easy-chair  of  Atticus,  but  refresh  your  vir 
tues  and  your  spirits  with  the  contemplation  of  Cicero. 


Scenery  in  the  Highlands  on  the  River  Hudson. — IRVING. 

IN  the  second  day  of  the  voyage  they  came  to  the  High 
lands.  It  was  the  latter  part  of  a  calm,  sultry  day,  that  they 
floated  gently  with  the  tide  between  these  stern  mountains. 
There  was  that  perfect  quiet,  which  prevails  over  nature 
tn  the  languor  of  summer  heat ;  the  turning  of  a  plank, 
or  the  accidental  falling  of  an  oar  on  deck,  was  echoed 
from  the  mountain  side,  and  reverberated  along  the  shores ; 
•and  if  by  chance  the  captain  gave  a  shout  of  command, 
there  were  airy  tongues  that  mocked  it  from  every  cliff. 

Dolph  gazed  about  him  in  mute  delight  and  wonder  at 
these  scenes  of  nature's  magnificence.  To  the  left  the 
Dunderberg  reared  its  woody  precipices,  height  over  height, 
forest  over  forest,  away  into  the  deep  summer  sky.  To 
the  right  strutted  forth  the  bold  promontory  of  Antony's 
Nose,  with  a  solitary  eagle  wheeling  about  it ;  while  be 
yond,  mountain  succeeded  to  mountain,  until  they  seem 
ed  to  lock  their  arms  together,  and  confine  this  mighty  riv 
er  ]r.  their  embraces.  There  was  a  feeling  of  quiet  luxury 
in  gazing  at  the  broad,  green  bosom?  here  and  there  scoop- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  34? 

ed  out  among  the  precipices ;  or  at  woodlands  high  in  air, 
nodding  over  the  edge  of  some  beetling  bluff,  and  their  fo 
liage  all  transparent  in  the  yellow  sunshine. 

In  the  midst  of  his  admiration,  Dolph  remarked  a  pile  of 
bright,  snowy  clouds  peering  above  the  western  heights. 
It  was  succeeded  by  another,  and  another,  each  seeming 
ly  pushing  onwards  its  predecessor,  and  towering,  with 
dazzling  brilliancy,  in  the  deep  blue  atmosphere  :  and  now 
muttering  peals  of  thunder  were  faintly  heard  rolling  be 
hind  the  mountains.  The  river,  hitherto  still  and  glassy, 
reflecting  pictures  of  the  sky  and  land,  now  showed  a  dark 
ripple  at  a  distance,  as  the  breeze  came  creeping  up  it. 
The  fish  hawks  wheeled  and  screamed,  and  sought  their 
nests  on  the  high  dry  trees ;  the  crows  flew  clamorously 
to  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  and  all  nature  seemed  con 
scious  of  the  approaching  thunder-gust. 

The  clouds  now  rolled  in  volumes  over  the  mountain 
tops  ;  their  summits  still  bright  and  snowy,  but  the  lower 
parts  of  an  inky  blackness.  The  rain  began  to  patter  down 
in  broad  and  scattered  drops ;  the  wind  freshened,  and  curl 
ed  up  the  waves ;  at  length  it  seemed  as  if  the  bellying 
clouds  were  torn  open  by  the  mountain  tops,  and  complete 
torrents  of  rain  came  rattling  down.  The  lightning  leaped 
from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  streamed  quivering  against  the 
rocks,  spliltirig  and  rending  the  stoutest  forest  trees.  The 
thunder  burst  in  tremendous  explosions ;  the  peals  were 
echoed  from  mountain  to  mountain  ;  they  crashed  upon 
Dunderberg,  and  then  rolled  up  the  long  defile  of  the  High 
lands,  each  headland  making  a  new  echo,  until  old  Bull  Hill 
seemed  to_bellow  back  the  storm. 

For  a  time,  the  scudding  rack  and  mist,  and  the  sheeted 
rain,  almost  hid  the  landscape  from  the  sight.  There  was 
a  fearful  gloom,  illumined  still  more  fearfully  by  the  streams 
of  lightning,  which  glittered  among  the  rain  drops.  Never 
had  Dolph  beheld  such  an  absolute  warring  of  the  elements ; 
it  seamed  as  if  the  storm  was  tearing  and  rending  its  way 
through  this  mountain  defile,  and  had  brought  all  the  artil 
lery  of  heaven  into  action. 

The  vessel  was  hurried  on  by  the  increasing  wind,  until 
she  came  to  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend,  the  onl<r 


348  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

one  in  the  whole  course  of  its  majestic  career.*  Just  as 
they  turned  the  point,  a  violent  flaw  of  wind  came  sweep 
ing  down  a  mountain  gully,  bending  the  forest  before  it, 
and,  in  a  moment,  lashing  up  the  river  into  white  froth  and 
foam.  The  captain  saw  the  danger,  and  cried  out  to  lower 
the  sail.  Before  the  order  could  be  obeyed,  the  flaw  struck 
the  sloop,  and  threw  her  on  her  beam-ends.  Every  thing 
now  was  fright  and  confusion :  the  flapping  of  the  sails, 
the  whistling  and  rushing  of  the  wind,  the  bawling  of  the 
captain  and  crew,  the  shrieking  of  the  passengers,  ail 
mingled  with  the  rolling  and  bellowing  of  the  thunder.  In 
the  midst  of  the  uproar  the  sloop  righted  ;  at  the  same  time 
the  mainsail  shifted,  the  boom  came  sweeping  the  quarter 
deck,  and  Dolph,  who  was  gazing  unguardedly  at  the 
clouds,  found  himself,  in  a  moment,  floundering  in  the 
river. 

For  once  in  his  life,  one  of  his  idle  accomplishments  wa.t 
of  use  to  him.  The  many  truant  hours  which  he  had  de 
voted  to  sporting  in  the  Hudson  had  made  him  an  expert 
swimmer  ;  yet,  with  all  his  strength  and  skill,  he  found 
great  difficulty  in  reaching  the  shore.  His  disappearance 
from  the  deck  had  not  been  noticed  by  the  crew,  who  were 
all  occupied  with  their  own  danger.  The  sloop  was  driven 
along  with  inconceivable  rapidity.  She  had  hard  work  to 
weather  a  long  promontory  on  the  eastern  shore,  round 
which  the  river  turned,  and  which  completely  shut  her 
from  Dolph's  view. 

It  was  on  a  point  of  the  western  shore  that  he  landed, 
and,  scrambling  up  the  rocks,  he  threw  himself,  faint  and 
exhausted,  at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  By  degrees  the  thunder- 
gust  passed  over.  The  clouds  rolled  away  to  the  east, 
where  they  lay  piled  in  feathery  masses,  tinted  with  the 
last  rosy  rays  of  the  sun.  The  distant  play  of  the 
lightning  might  be  still  seen  about  their  dark  bases,  and 
now  and  then  might  be  heard  the  faint  muttering  of  the 
thunder.  Dolph  rose,  and  sought  about  to  see  if  t*ny  path 
led  from  the  shore,  but  all  was  savage  and  trackless.  The 
rocks  were  piled  upon  each  other ;  great  trunks  of  trees 
lay  shattered  about,  as  they  had  been  blown  down  by  the 

*  This  must  have  been  the  bend  at  West  Point 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  349 

strong  winds  which  draw  through  these  mountains,  or  had 
fallen  through  age.  The  rocks,  too,  were  overhung  with 
wild  vines  and  briers,  which  completely  matted  themselves 
together,  and  opposed  a  barrier  to  all  ingress  ;  every  move 
ment  that  he  made  shook  down  a  shower  from  the  dripping 
foliage.  He  attempted  to  scale  one  of  these  almost  per 
pendicular  heights  ;  but,  though  strong  and  agile,  he  found 
it  an  Herculean  undertaking.  Often  he  was  supported 
merely  by  crumbling  projections  of  the  rock,  and  some 
times  he  clung  to  roots  and  branches  of  trees,  and  hung 
almost  suspended  in  the  air.  The  wood-pigeon  came  cleav 
ing  his  whistling  flight  by  him,  and  the  eagle  screamed 
from  the  brow  of  the  impending  cliff.  As  he  was  thus 
clambering,  he  was  on  the  point  of  seizing  hold  of  a  shrub 
to  aid  his  ascent,  when  something  rustled  among  the  leaves, 
and  he  saw  a  snake  quivering  along  like  lightning,  almost 
from  under  his  hand.  It  coiled  itself  up  immediately,  in 
an  attitude  of  defiance,  with  flattened  head,  distended  jaws, 
and  quickly  vibrating  tongue,  that  played  like  a  little  flame 
about  its  mouth.  Dolph's  heart  turned  faint  within  him, 
and  he  had  well  nigh  let  go  his  hold,  and  tumbled  down 
the  precipice.  The  serpent  stood  on  the  defensive  hut  for 
an  instant ;  it  was  an  instinctive  movement  of  defence ; 
and,  finding  there  was  no  attack,  it  glided  away  into  a  cleft 
of  the  rock.  Dolph's  eye  followed  it  with  fearful  intensi 
ty  ;  and  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of 
a  nest  of  adders,  that  lay  knotted,  and  writhing,  and  hissing 
in  the  chasm.  He  hastened  with  all  speed  to  escape  from 
so  frightful  a  neighbourhood.  His  imagination  was  full  of 
this  new  horror ;  he  saw  an  adder  in  every  curling  vine, 
and  heard  the  tail  of  a  rattle-snake  in  every  dry  leaf  that 
rustled. 

At  length  he  succeeded  in  scrambling  to  the  summit  of 
a  precipice  ;  but  it  was  covered  by  a  dense  forest.  Wher 
ever  he  couli  gain  a  look  out  between  the  trees,  he  saw 
that  the  coast  rose  into  heights  and  cliffs,  one  rising  beyond 
another,  until  huge  mountains  overtopped  the  whole.  There 
were  no  signs  of  cultivation,  nor  any  smoke  curling  amongst 
the  trees  to  indicate  a  human  residence.  Every  thing  was 
wild  -\nd  solitary.  As  he  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  a 
precij-ice  that  overlooked  a  deep  ravine  fringed  with  trees, 
30 


850  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

his  feet  detached  a  great  fragment  of  rock ;  it  fell,  crash 
ing  its  way  through  the  tree  tops,  down  into  the  chasm.  A 
loud  whoop,  or  rather  a  yell,  issued  from  the  bottom  of  the 
gleii ;  the  moment  after  there  was  the  report  of  a  gun ; 
and  a  ball  came  whistling  over  his  head,  cutting  the  twigs 
and  leaves,  and  burying  itself  deep  in  the  bark  of  a  chest 
nut-tree. 

Dolph  did  not  wait  for  a  second  shot,  but  made  a  pre 
cipitate  retreat ;  fearing  every  moment  to  hear  the  enemy 
in  pursuit.  He  succeeded,  however,  in  returning  unino 
lested  to  the  shore,  and  determined  to  penetrate  no  farlhet 
into  a  country  so  beset  with  savage  perils. 

He  sat  himself  down,  dripping,  disconsolately,  on  a  wet 
stone.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  where  was  he  to  shelter 
himself  ?  The  hour  of  repose  was  approaching  ;  the  birds 
were  seeking  their  nests,  the  bat  began  to  flit  about  in  t!ie 
twilight,  and  the  night  hawk,  soaring  high  in  heaven,  seem 
ed  to  be  calling  out  the  stars.  Night  gradually  closed  in, 
and  wrapped  every  thing  in  gloom  ;  and  though  it  was  the 
latter  part  of  summer,  yet  the  breeze,  stealing  along  the 
river,  and  among  these  drippL.g  forests,  was  chilly  and 
penetrating,  especially  to  a  half-drowned  man. 


Eternity  of  God. — GREENWOOD. 

WE  receive  such  repeated  intimations  of  decay  in  the 
world  through  which  we  are  passing  ;  decline  and  change 
and  loss,  follow  decline  and  change  and  loss  in  such  rapid 
succession,  that  we  can  almost  catch  the  sound  of  univer 
sal  wasting,  and  hear  the  work  of  desolation  going  on  busily 
around  us.  "  The  mountain,  falling,  cometh  to  nought, 
and  the  rock  is  removed  out  of  his  place.  The  waters 
wear  the  stones,  the  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust  of 
the  earth  are  washed  away,  and  the  hope  of  man  is  de 
stroyed."  Conscious  of  our  own  instability,  we  look  about 
for  something  to  rest  on,  but  we  look  in  vain.  The  heav 
ens  and  the  earth  had  a  beginning,  and  they  will  have  an 
end.  The  face  of  the  world  is  changing  daily  and  hourly 
All  animated  things  grow  old  and  die.  The  rocks  crum- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  351 

ble,  the  trees  fall,  the  leaves  fade,  aiul  the  grass  withers. 
The  clouds  are  flying,  and  the  waters  are  flowing  away 
from  us. 

The  firmest  works  of  man,  too,  are  gradually  giving 
way ;  the  ivy  clings  to  the  mouldering  tower,  the  brier 
hangs  out  from  the  shattered  window,  ami  the  wall-flower 
springs  from  the  disjointed  stones.  The  founders  of  these 
perishable  works  have  shared  the  same  fate  long  ago.  If 
we  look  back  to  the  days  of  our  ancestors,  to  the  men  as 
well  as  the  dwellings  of  former  times,  they  become  imme 
diately  associated  in  our  imaginations,  and  only  make  the 
feeling  of  instability  stronger  and  deeper  than  before.  In 
the  spacious  domes,  which  once  held  our  fathers,  the  ser 
pent  hisses,  and  the  wild  bird  screams.  The  halls,  which 
once  were  crowded  with  all  that  taste,  and  science,  and 
labour  could  procure,  which  resounded  with  melody,  and 
were  lighted  up  with  beauty,  are  buried  by  their  own  ru 
ins,  mocked  by  their  own  desolation.  The  voice  of  mer 
riment,  and  of  wailing,  the  steps  of  the  busy  and  the  idle, 
have  ceased  in  the  deserted  courts,  and  the  weeds  choke 
the  entrances,  and  the  long  grass  waves  upon  the  hearth 
stone.  The  works  of  art,  the  forming  hand,  the  tombs,  the 
very  ashes  they  contained,  are  all  gone. 

While  we  thus  walk  among  the  ruins  of  the  past,  a  sad 
feeling  of  insecurity  comes  over  us  ;  and  that  feeling  is  by 
no  means  diminished  when  we  arrive  at  home.  If  we  turn 
to  our  friends,  we  can  hardly  speak  to  them  before  they 
bid  us  farewell.  We  see  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  in 
a  few  moments  more  their  countenances  are  changed,  and 
they  are  sent  away.  It  matters  not  how  near  and  dear 
they  are.  The  ties  which  bind  us  together  are  never  too 
close  to  be  parted,  or  too  strong  to  be  broken.  Tears  were 
never  known  to  move  the  king  of  terrors,  neither  is  it 
enough  that  we  are  compelled  to  surrender  one,  or  two, 
or  many  of  those  we  love  ;  for,  though  the  price  is  so  great, 
we  buy  no  favour  with  it,  and  our  hold  on  those  who  re 
main  is  as  slight  as  ever.  The  shadows  all  elude  our  grasp, 
and  follow  one  another  down  the  valley.  We  gain  no  con 
fidence,  then,  no  feeling  of  security,  by  turning  to  our 
contemporaries  and  kindred.  We  know  that  the  forms, 
which  are  breathing  around  us,  are  as  short-lived  a=  thosa 


352  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE 

were,  which  have  been  dust  for  centuries.  The  sensarloa 
of  vanity,  uncertainty,  and  ruin,  is  equally  strong,  win  th- 
er  we  muse  on  what  has  long  been  prostrate,  or  gaze  en 
what  is  falling  now,  or  will  fall  so  soon. 

If  every  thing  which  comes  under  our  notice  has  en 
dured  for  so  short  a  time,  and  in  so  short  a  time  will  be  no 
more,  we  cannot  say  that  we  receive  the  least  assurance 
by  thinking  on  ourselves.  When  they,  on  whose  fate  we 
have  been  meditating,  were  engaged  in  the  active  scenes 
of  life,  as  full  of  health  and  hope  as  we  are  now,  what 
were  we  ?  We  had  no  knowledge,  no  consciousness,  no 
being ;  there  was  not  a  single  thing  in  the  wide  universe 
which  knew  us.  And  after  the  same  interval  shall  have 
elapsed,  which  now  divides  their  days  from  ours,  what 
shall  we  be  ?  What  they  are  now.  When  a  few  more 
friends  have  left,  a  few  more  hopes  deceived,  and  a  few 
more  changes  mocked  us,  "  we  shall  be  brought  to  the 
grave,  and  shall  remain  in  the  tomb :  the  clods  of  the  val 
ley  shall  be  sweet  unto  us,  and  every  man  shall  draw  after 
us,  as  there  are  innumerable  before  us."  All  power  will  have 
forsaken  the  strongest,  and  the  loftiest  will  be  laid  low,  and 
every  eye  will  be  closed,  and  every  voice  hushed,  and 
every  heart  will  have  ceased  its  beating.  And  when  we 
have  gone  ourselves,  even  our  memories  will  not  stay  be 
hind  us  long.  A  few  of  the  near  and  dear  will  bear  our 
likeness  in  their  bosoms,  till  they  too  have  arrived  at  the 
end  of  their  journey,  and  entered  the  dark  dwelling  of  un 
consciousness.  In  the  thoughts  of  others  we  shall  live 
only  till  the  last  sound  of  the  bell,  which  informs  them  of 
our  departure,  has  ceased  to  vibrate  in  their  ears.  A  stone, 
perhaps,  may  tell  some  wanderer  where  we  lie,  when  we 
came  here,  and  when  we  went  away  ;  but  even  that  \i  ill 
soon  refuse  to  bear  us  record  :  "  time's  effacing  fingers" 
will  be  busy  on  its  surface,  and  at  length  will  wear  it 
smooth  ;  and  then  the  stone  itself  will  sink  or  crumble, 
and  the  wanderer  of  another  age  will  pass,  without  a  sin 
gle  call  upon  his  sympathy,  over  our  unheeded  graves. 

Is  there  nothing  to  counteract  the  sinking  of  the  heart, 
which  must  be  the  effect  of  observations  like  these  '  Is 
there  no  substance  among  all  these  shadows  ?  If  all  who 
live  and  breathe  around  us  are  the  creatures  of  yesterday 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  353 

ami  destined  to  see  destruction  to-morrow  ;  if  the  same 
condition  is  our  own,  and  the  same  sentence  is  written 
against  us ;  if  the  solid  forms  of  inanimate  nature  and  la 
borious  art  are  fading  and  falling ;  if  we  look  in  vain  for 
durability  to  the  very  roots  of  mountains,  where  shall  we 
return,  and  on  what  shall  we  rely  ?  Can  no  support  be 
offered  ?  can  no  source  of  confidence  be  named  ?  Oh  yes ! 
there  is  one  Being,  to  whom  we  can  look  with  a  perfect 
conviction  of  finding  that  security,  which  nothing  about  us 
can  give,  and  which  nothing  about  us  can  take  away  To 
this  Being  we  can  lift  up  our  souls,  and  on  him  we  may 
rest  them,  exclaiming,  in  the  language  of  the  monarch  cf 
Israel,  "  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever 
thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  ever 
lasting  to  everlasting  thou  art  God.  Of  old  hast  thou  laid 
the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  the  heavens  are  the  work 
of  thy  hands.  They  shall  perish,  but  thou  shalt  endure ; 
yea,  all  of  them  shall  wax  old  Jike  a  garment,  as  a  vesture 
shalt  thou  change  them,  and  they  shall  be  changed  ,  but 
thou  art  the  same,  and  thy  years  shall  have  no  end." 

The  eternity  of  God  is  a  subject  of  contemplation,  which, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  overwhelms  us  with  astonishment 
and  awe,  affords  us  an  immoveable  ground  of  confidence 
in  the  midst  of  a  changing  world.  All  things  which  sur 
round  us,  all  these  dying,  mouldering  inhabitants  of  time, 
must  have  had  a  Creator,  for  the  plain  reason,  that  they 
could  not  have  created  themselves.  And  their  Creator 
must  have  existed  from  all  eternity,  for  the  plain  reason, 
that  the  first  cause  must  necessarily  be  uncaused.  As  we 
cannot  suppose  a  beginning  without  a  cause  of  existence, 
that  which  is  the  cause  of  all  existence  must  be  self-exist 
ent,  and  could  have  had  no  beginning.  And,  as  it  had  no 
beginning,  so  also,  as  it  is  beyond  the  reach  of  all  influence 
and  control,  as  it  is  independent  and  almighty,  it  will  have 
no  end. 

Here  then  is  a  support,  which  will  never  fail ;  here  is  A 
foundation,  which  can  never  be  moved — the  everlasting 
Creator  of  countless  worlds,  "  the  high  and  lofty  One 
that  inhabiteth  eternity."  What  a  sublime  conception  ' 
He  inhabits  eternity,  occupies  this  inconceivable  duration 
pervades  and  fills  throughout  "his  boundless  dwelling 
30" 


354  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Ages  on  ages  before  even  the  dust  of  which  we  are  form 
ed  was  created,  he  had  existed  in  infinite  majesty,  and  ages 
on  ages  will  roll  away,  after  we  have  all  returned  to  the 
dust  whence  we  were  taken,  and  still  he  will  exist  in  infi 
nite  majesty,  living  in  the  eternity  of  his  own  nature, 
reigning  in  the  plenitude  of  his  own  omnipotence,  forevei 
sending  forth  the  word,  wlftch  forms,  supports  and  governs 
all  things,  commanding  new-created  light  to  shine  on  new- 
created  world.",  and  raising  up  new-created  generations  to 
inhabit  them. 

The  contemplation  of  these  glorious  attributes  of  God 
is  fitted  to  excite  in  our  minds  the  most  animating  and  con 
soling  reflections.  Standing,  as  we  are,  amid  the  ruins  of 
time,  and  the  wrecks  of  mortality,  where  every  thing  about 
us  is  created  and  dependent,  proceeding  from  nothing,  and 
hastening  to  destruction,  we  rejoice  that  something  is  pre 
sented  to  our  view,  which  has  stood  from  everlasting, 
and  will  remain  forever.  When  we  have  looked  on  the 
pleasures  of  life,  and  they  have  vanished  away  ;  when  we 
have  looked  on  the  works  of  nature,  and  perceived  that 
they  were  changing  ;  on  the  monuments  of  art,  and  seen 
that  they  would  not  stand ;  on  our  friends,  and  they  have 
fled,  while  we  were  gazing ;  on  ourselves,  and  felt  that 
we  were  as  fleeting  as  they ;  when  we  have  looked  on 
every  object  to  which  we  could  turn  our  anxious  eyes,  and 
they  have  all  told  us  that  they  could  give  us  no  hope  nor 
support,  because  they  were  so  feeble  themselves, — we  can 
look  to  the  throne  of  God  :  change  and  decay  have  never 
reached  that ;  the  revolution  of  ages  has  never  moved  it ; 
the  'waves  of  an  eternity  have  been  rushing  past  it,  but  it 
has  remained  unshaken ;  the  waves  of  another  eternity 
are  rushing  toward  it,  but  it  is  fixed,  and  can  never  be  dis 
turbed. 

And  blessed  be  God,  who  has  assured  us,  by  a  revelation 
from  himself,  that  the  throne  of  eternity  is  likewise  a  throne 
of  mercy  and  love  ;  who  has  permitted  and  invited  us  to 
repose  ourselves  and  our  hopes  on  that  which  alone  is  ev 
erlasting  and  unchangeable.  We  shall  shortly  finish  out 
allotted  time  on  earth,  even  if  it  should  be  unusually  pro 
longed.  We  shall  leave  behind  us  all  which  is  now  fa 
miliar  and  beloved,  and  a  world  of  other  diys  and  other 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK.  OF  PROSE.  355 

men  will  be  entirely  ignorant  that  once  we  lived.  But  th« 
same  unalterable  Being  will  still  preside  over  the  universe, 
through  all  its  changes,  and  from  his  remembrance  we 
shall  never  be  blotted.  We  can  never  be  where  he  is  not, 
nor  where  he  sees  and  loves  and  upholds  us  not.  He  is 
our  Father  and  our  God  forever.  He  takes  us  from  earth 
that  he  may  lead  us  to  heaven,  that  he  may  refine  our  na 
ture  from  all  its  principles  of  corruption,  share  with  us  his 
own  immortality,  admit  us  to  his  everlasting  habitation,  and 
crown  us  with  his  eternity. 


Philosophy  and  Morality  of  Tacitus. — FRISBIE. 

IT  is  not  for  his  style,  that  we  principally  admire  this 
author:  his  profound  views  of  the  human  heart,  his  just 
developement  of  the  principles  of  action,  his  delicate  touch 
es  of  nature,  his  love  of  liberty  and  independence,  and, 
above  all,  the  moral  sensibility,  which  mingles,  and  incor 
porates  itself  with  all  his  descriptions,  are  the  qualities, 
which  must  ever  render  him  a  favourite  with  the  friends 
of  philosophy  and  of  man. 

Tacitus  has  been  truly  called  the  philosopher  of  histori 
ans  ;  but  his  philosophy  never  arrays  itself  in  the  robe  of 
the  schools,  or  enters  into  a  formal  investigation  of  causes 
and  motives.  It  seems  to  show  itself  here  and  there,  in 
the  course  of  his  facts,  involuntarily,  and  from  its  own  ful- 
PPSS,  by  the  manner  of  narration,  by  a  single  word,  and 
sometimes  by  a  general  observation.  Events,  in  his  hands, 
have  a  soul,  which  is  constantly  displaying  its  secret  work 
ings  by  the  attitude,  into  which  it  throws  the  body,  by  a 
glance  of  the  eye,  or  an  expression  of  the  face,  and  now 
arid  then  a  sudden  utterance  of  its  emotions.  It  is  not  the 
prince,  the  senator,  or  the  plebeian,  that  he  describes ;  it 
is  always  man,  and  the  general  principles  of  human  na 
ture  ;  and  this  in  their  nicer  and  more  evanescent,  as  well 
as  their  boldest  and  most  definite  expressions.  If  we  were 
not  afraid  of  giving  too  violent  a  shock  to  classical  devotees, 
we  should  say,  that,  in  the  particulars  we  have  mentioned, 
Tacitus  in  history  is  not  unlike  Miss  Edgeworth  in  fictiom. 


556  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PIIOSE 

There  are,  indeed,  many  circumstances,  unnecessary  to  be 
pointed  out,  in  which  they  differ  ;  but  there  is  in  both  the 
same  frequent  interspersion  in  the  narrative  of  short  re 
marks,  which  lay  open  a  principle  of  human  nature,  tha 
same  concise  developernerit  of  character  by  discrimination 
and  contrast,  and  the  nice  selection  of  some  one  trait,  or 
apparently  trifling  circumstance,  of  conduct,  as  a  key  to 
the  whole  ;  traits  and  circumstances,  which,  though  none 
but  a  philosopher  would  have  pointed  out,  find  their  way 
at  once  to  every  heart.  But  the  historian  has  none  of  the 
playfulness,  the  humour,  and  the  mind  at  ease,  which  are 
seen  in  the  novelist.  He  knew  himself  the  register  of 
facts,  and  facts,  too,  in  which  he  took  the  deepest  interest. 
He  records  events,  not  as  one  curious  in  political  relations, 
or  revolutions  in  empires,  but  as  marking  the  moral  charac 
ter  and  condition  of  the  age  ;  a  character  and  condition, 
which  he  felt  were  exerting  a  direct  and  powerful  influ 
ence  upon  himself,  upon  those  whom  he  loved,  and  with 
whom  he  lived. 

The  moral  sensibility  of  Tacitus  is,  we  think,  that  par 
ticular  circumstance,  by  which  he  so  deeply  engages  his 
reader,  and  is  perhaps  distinguished  from  every  other  wri 
ter,  in  the  same  department  of  literature  ;  and  the  scenes 
he  was  to  describe  peculiarly  required  this  quality.  His 
writings  comprise  a  period  the  most  corrupt  within  the 
annals  of  man.  The  reigns  of  the  Neros,  and  of  many 
of  their  successors,  seemed  to  have  brought  together  the 
opposite  vices  of  extreme  barbarism  and  excessive  luxury ; 
the  most  ferocious  cruelty  and  slavish  submission  ;  volup 
tuousness  the  most  effeminate,  and  sensuality  worse  than 
brutal.  Not  only  all  the  general  charities  of  life,  but  the 
very  ties  of  nature  were  annihilated  by  a  selfishness,  the 
most  exclusively  individual.  The  minions  of  power  butch 
ered  the  parent,  and  the  child  hurried  to  thank  the  empe 
ror  for  his  goodness.  The  very  fountains  of  abominations 
seemed  to  have  been  broken  up,  and  to  have  poured  over 
the  face  of  society  a  deluge  of  pollution  and  crimes.  How 
important  was  it,  then,  for  posterity,  that  the  records  of 
such  an  era  should  be  transmitted  by  one  in  whose  per 
sonal  character  there  should  be  a  redeeming  virtue,  who 
would  himself  feel,  and  awaken  in  his  readers,  that  disgust 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  357 

and  abhorrence,  which  such  scenes  ought  to  excite  !  Such 
a  oue  was  Tacitus.  There  is  in  his  narrative  a  sericusness, 
approaching  sometimes  almost  to  melancholy,  and  some* 
times  bursting  forth  in  expressions  of  virtuous  indignation. 
He  appears  alwavs  to  be  aware  of  the  general  complexion 
of  the  subjects,  of  which  he  is  treating ;  and,  even  when 
extraordinary  instances  of  independence  and  integrity  now 
and  then  present  themselves,  you  perceive,  that  his  mind 
is  secretly  contrasting  them  with  those  vices,  with  which 
his  observation  was  habitually  familiar.  Thus,  in  describ 
ing  the  pure  and  simple  manners  of  the  barbarous  tribes 
of  the  north,  you  find  him  constantly  bringing  forward  and 
dwelling  upon  those  virtues,  which  were  most  strikingly 
opposed  to  the  enormities  of  civilized  Rome.  He  could 
not,  like  his  contemporary  Juvenal,  treat  these  enormities 
with  sneering  and  sarcasm.  To  be  able  to  laugh  at  vice, 
he  thought  a  symptom,  that  one  had  been  touched  at  least 
by  its  pollution ;  or,  to  use  his  words,  and  illustrate,  at 
once,  both  of  the  remarks  we  have  just  made  ;  speaking 
of  the  temperance  and  chastity  of  the  Germans,  he  says, 
"  Nemo  enim  illic  ridet  vitia,  nee  corrumpere  et  corrumpi 
SEeculum  vocatur."  Therefore  it  is,  that,  in  reading  Taci 
tus,  our  interest  in  events  is  heightened  by  a  general  sym 
pathy  with  the  writer  ;  and  as,  in  most  instances,  it  is  an 
excellence,  when  we  lose  the  author  in  his  story,  so,  in 
this,  it  is  no  less  an  excellence,  that  we  have  him  so  fre 
quently  in  our  minds.  It  is  not,  that  he  obtrudes  himself 
upon  our  notice,  but  that  we  involuntarily,  though  not 
unconsciously,  see  with  his  eyes,  and  feel  with  his  feel 
ings. 

In  estimating,  however,  the  moral  sentiment  of  this  his 
torian,  we  are  not  to  judge  him  by  the  present  standard, 
elevated  and  improved  as  it  is  by  Christianity.  Tacitus 
undoubtedly  felt  the  influence  of  great  and  prevalent  er 
rors.  That  war  with  barbarians  was  at  all  times  just, 
and  their  territory  and  their  persons  the  lawful  prey  of 
whatever  nation  could  seize  them,  it  is  well  known,  had 
been  always  the  practical  maxim  of  the  Greeks,  as  well 
as  the  Romans.  Hence  we  are  not  to  be  surprised,  that, 
in  various  passages  of  his  work,  he  does  not  express  that 
abhorrence  of  many  wars,  m  which  his  countrymen  were 


358  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

engaged,  which  we  might  otherwise  have  expected  front 
him.  This  apology  must  especially  be  borne  in  mind,  as 
we  read  the  life  of  Agricola.  The  invasion  of  Britain  by 
the  Romans  was  as  truly  a  violation  of  the  rights  of  justice 
and  humanity,  as  that  of  Mexico  and  Peru  by  the  Span 
iards  ;  and  their  leader  little  better  in  principle,  than  Cor- 
tez  and  Pizarro.  Yet,  even  here,  full  as  was  Tacitus  of 
the  glory  of  his  father-in-law  and  of  Rome,  we  have  fre 
quent  indications  of  sensibility  to  the  wrongs  of  the  op 
pressed  and  plundered  islanders.  The  well  known  speech 
of  Calgaeus  breathes  all  the  author's  love  of  liberty  and 
virtue,  and  exhibits  the  simple  virtues,  the  generous  self- 
devotion,  of  the  Caledonians,  in  their  last  struggle  for  in 
dependence,  in  powerful  contrast  with  the  vices  and  am 
bition  of  their  cruel  and  rapacious  invaders. 

We  have  mentioned  what  appears  to  us  the  most  striking 
characteristics  of  the  author  before  us.  When  compared 
with  his  great  predecessor,  he  is  no  less  excellent,  but  es 
sentially  different.  Livy  is  only  a  historian,  Tacitus  is 
also  a  philosopher  ;  the  former  gives  you  images,  the  latter 
impressions.  In  the  narration  of  events,  Livy  produces 
his  effect  by  completeness  and  exact  particularity,  Tacitus 
by  selection  and  condensation  ;  the  one  presents  to  you  a 
panorama — you  have  the  whole  scene,  with  all  its  compli 
cated  movements  and  various  appearances  vividly  before 
you  ;  the  other  shows  you  the  most  prominent  and  remark 
able  groups,  and  compensates  in  depth  for  what  he  wants  in 
minuteness.  Livy  hurries  you  into  the  midst  of  the  bat 
tle,  and  leaves  you  to  be  borne  along  by  its  tide  :  Tacitus 
stands  with  you  upon  an  eminence,  where  you  have  more 
tranquillity  for  distinct  observation  ;  or  perhaps,  when  the 
armies  have  retired,  walks  with  you  over  the  field,  points 
out  to  you  the  spot  of  each  most  interesting  particular,  and 
shares  with  you  those  solemn  and  profound  emotions,  which 
you  have  now  the  composure  fr)  feel. 


COMMON-PL  \CE  BOOK  Or  PROSE.  359 


The  Village  Grave-Yard. — GREENWOOD 

"  Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted  ? 

Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ?" — BYKOK. 

Irr  the  beginning  of  the  line  month  of  October ,  I  was 
travelling  with  a  friend  in  one  of  our  northern  states,  on  a 
tour  of  recreation  and  pleasure.  We  were  tired  of  the 
city,  its  noise,  its  smoke,  and  its  unmeaning  dissipation ;  and, 
with  the  feelings  of  emancipated  prisoners,  we  had  been 
breathing,  for  a  few  weeks,  the  perfume  of  the  vaies,  and 
the  elastic  atmosphere  of  the  uplands.  Some  m<nutes  be 
fore  the  sunset  of  a  most  lovely  day,  we  entered  a  neat 
little  village,  whose  tapering  spire  we  had  caught  sight  of 
at  intervals  an  hour  before,  as  our  road  made  an  unexpect 
ed  turn,  or  led  us  to  the  top  of  a  hill.  Having  no  motive 
to  urge  a  farther  progress,  and  being  unwilling  to  ride  in 
an  unknown  country  after  night-fall,  we  stopped  at  the  inn, 
and  determined  to  lodge  there. 

Leaving  my  companion  to  arrange  our  accommodations 
with  the  landlord,  I  strolled  on  toward  the  meeting-house. 
Its  situation  had  attracted  my  notice.  There  was  much 
more  taste  and  beauty  in  it  than  is  common.  It  did  not 
stand,  as  I  have  seen  some  meeting-houses  stand,  in  the  most 
frequented  part  of  the  village,  blockaded  by  wagons  and 
horses,  with  a  court-house  before  it,  an  engine-house  be 
hind  it,  a  store-house  under  it,  and  a  tavern  on  each  side  ; 
it  stood  away  from  all  these  things,  as  it  ought,  and  was 
placed  on  a  spot  of  gently  rising  ground,  a  short  distance 
from  the  main  road,  at  the  end  of  a  green  lane ;  and  so 
nea-  to  a  grove  of  oaks  and  walnuts,  that  one  of  the 
foremost  and  largest  trees  brushed  against  the  pulpit  win 
dow.  On  the  left,  and  lower  down,  there  was  a  fertile 
meadow,  through  which  a  clear  brook  wound  its  course, 
fell  over  a  rock,  and  then  hid  itself  in  the  thickest  part  of 
the  grove.  A  little  to  the  right  of  the  meeting-house  was 
the  grave-yard. 

I  never  shun  a  grave-yard — the  thoughtful  melancholy 
which  it  inspires  is  grateful  rather  than  disagreeable  to 
me — it  gives  me  no  pain  to  tread  on  the  green  roof  of  that 
dark  mansion,  whose  chambers  I  must  occupy  so  soon — 


360  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

and  I  often  wander  from  choice  to  a  place,  where  there  is 
neither  solitude  nor  society — something  human  is  there — • 
but  the  folly,  the  bustle,  the  vanities,  the  pretensions,  the 
competitions,  the  pride  of  humanity,  are  gone — men  are 
there,  but  their  passions  are  hushed,  and  their  spirits  are 
still — malevolence  has  lost  its  power  of  harming — appetite 
is  sated,  ambition  lies  low,  and  lust  is  cold — anger  has  done 
raving,  all  disputes  are  ended,  all  revelry  is  over,  the  fell 
est  animosity  is  deeply  buried,  and  the  most  dangerous  sins 
are  safely  confined  by  the  thickly-piled  clods  of  the  valley 
—vice  is  dumb  and  powerless,  and  virtue  is  waiting  in 
silence  for  the  trump  of  the  archangel,  and  the  voice  ot 
God. 

I  never  shun  a  grave-yard,  and  I  entered  this.  There 
were  trees  growing  in  it,  here  and  there,  though  it  wai 
not  regularly  planted ;  and  I  thought  that  it  looked  better 
than  if  it  had  been.  The  only  paths  were  those,  which 
had  been  worn  by  the  slow  feet  of  sorrow  and  sympathy, 
as  they  followed  love  and  friendship  to  the  grave ;  and  this 
too  was  well,  for  I  dislike  a  smoothly  rolled  gravel-walk  in  a 
place  like  this.  In  a  corner  of  the  ground  rose  a  gentle 
knoll,  the  top  of  which  was  covered  by  a  clump  of  pines. 
FIj:re  my  walk  ended  ;  I  threw  myself  down  on  the  slip 
pery  couch  of  withered  pine  leaves,  which  the  breath  of 
many  winters  had  shaken  from  the  boughs  above,  leaned 
my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  gave  myself  up  to  the  feelings 
which  the  place  and  the  time  excited. 

The  sun's  edge  had  just  touched  the  hazy  outlines  of 
the  western  hills  ;  it  was  the  signal  for  the  breeze  to  be 
hushed,  and  it  was  breathing  like  an  expiring  infant,  softly 
and  at  distant  intervals,  before  it  died  away.  The  trees  be 
fore  me,  as  the  wind  passed  over  them,  waved  to  and  fro, 
and  trailed  their  long  branches  across  the  tomb-stones,  with 
.alow,  moaning  sound,  which  fell  upon  the  ear  like  the  voice 
of  grief,  and  seemed  to  utter  the  conscious  tribute  of  na 
ture's  sympathy  over  the  last  abode  of  mortal  man.  A 
low,  confused  hum  came  from  the  village  ;  the  brook  was 
murmuring  in  the  wood  behind  me  ;  and,  lulled  by  all  these 
soothing  sounds,  I  fell  asleep. 

But  whether  my  eyes  closed  or  not,  I  am  unable  to  say, 
for  the  same  scene  appeared  to  be  before  them,  the  same 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  361 

trees  were  waving,  and  not  a  green  mound  had  changed 
ts  form.  I  was  still  contemplating  the  same  trophies  of 
the  unsparing  victor,  the  same  mementos  of  human  evan 
escence.  Some  were  standing  upright ;  others  were  in 
clined  to  the  ground  ;  some  were  sunk  so  deeply  in  the 
earth,  that  their  blue  tops  were  just  visible  above  the  long 
grass  which  surrounded  them  ;  and  others  were  spotted  or 
covered  with  the  thin  yellow  moss  of  the  grave-yard.  I 
was  reading  the  inscriptions  on  the  stones,  which  were 
nearest  to  me — they  recorded  the  virtues  of  those  who  slept 
beneath  them,  and  told  the  traveller  that  they  hoped  for  a 
happy  rising.  Ah  !  said  I — or  I  dreamed  that  I  said  so — 
this  is  the  testimony  of  wounded  hearts — the  fond  belief 
of  that  affection,  which  remembers  error  and  evil  no  long 
er  ;  but  could  the  grave  give  up  its  dead — could  they,  who 
have  been  brought  to  these  cold  dark  houses,  go  back  again 
into  the  land  of  the  living,  and  once  more  number  the 
days  which  they  had  spent  there,  how  differently  would 
they  then  spend  them !  and  when  they  came  to  die,  how 
much  firmer  would  be  their  hope  !  and  when  they  were 
again  laid  in  the  ground,  how  much  more  faithful  would 
be  the  tales,  which  these  same  stones  would  tell  over  them ! 
the  epitaph  of  praise  would  be  well  deserved  by  their  vir 
tues,  and  the  silence  of  partiality  no  longer  required  for 
their  sins. 

I  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  the  ground  began  to  trem 
hie  beneath  me.  Its  motion,  hardly  perceptible  at  first, 
increased  every  moment  in  violence,  and  it  soon  heaved 
and  struggled  fearfully ;  while  in  the  short  quiet  between 
shock  and  shock,  I  heard  such  unearthly  sounds,  that  the 
very  blood  in  my  heart  felt  cold — subterraneous  cries  and 
groans  issued  from  every  part  of  the  grave-yard,  and  these 
were  mingled  with  a  hollow  crishing  noise,  as  if  the  moul 
dering  bones  were  bursting  from  their  coffins.  Suddenly 
all  these  sounds  stopped' — the  earth  on  each  grave  was 
thrown  up — and  human  figures  of  every  age,  and  clad  in 
the  garments  of  death,  rose  from  the  ground,  and  stood  by 
the  side  of  their  grave-stones.  Their  arms  were  crossed 
upon  their  bosoms — their  countenances  were  deadly  pale, 
and  raised  to  heaven.  The  looks  of  the  young  children 
alone  were  placid  and  unconscious — but  over  the  features 
31 


362  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PRJSE. 

of  all  the  rest  a  shadow  of  unutterable  meaning  passed  and 
repassed,  as  their  eyes  turned  with  terror  from  the  open 
graves,  and  strained  anxiously  upward.  Some  appeared 
to  be  more  calm  than  others,  and  when  they  looked  abtve, 
it  was  with  an  expression  of  more  confide1!,  ce,  though  not 
less  humility ;  but  a  convulsive  shuddering  was  on  the 
frames  of  all,  and  on  their  faces  that  same  shadow  of  un 
utterable  meaning.  While  they  stood  thus,  I  perceived  that 
their  bloodless  lips  began  to  move,  and,  though  I  heard  no 
voice,  I  knew,  by  the  motion  of  their  lips,  that  the  word 
would  have  been — Pardon  I 

But  this  did  not  continue  long — they  gradually  became 
more  fearless — their  features  acquired  the  appearance  of 
security,  and  at  last  of  indifference — the  blood  came  to 
their  lips — the  shuddering  ceased,  zjid  the  shadow  passed 
away. 

And  now  the  scene  before  me  changed.  The  tombs  and 
grave-stones  had  been  turned,  I  knew  not  how,  into  dwell- 
ingj — and  the  grave-yard  became  a  village.  Every  now 
and  then  I  caught  a  view  of  the  same  faces  and  forms, 
which  I  had  seen  before — but  other  passions  were  traced 
upon  their  faces,  and  their  forms  were  no  longer  clad  in 
the  garments  of  death.  The  silence  of  their  still  prayer 
was  succeeded  by  the  sounds  of  labour,  and  society,  and 
merriment.  Sometimes,  I  could  see  them  meet  together 
with  inflamed  features  and  angry  words,  and  sometimes  I 
distinguished  the  outcry  of  violence,  the  oath  of  passion, 
and  the  blasphemy  of  sin.  And  yet  there  were  a  few 
who  would  often  come  to  the  threshold  of  their  dwellings, 
and  lift  their  eyes  to  heaven,  and  utter  the  still  prayer  of 
par  ion — while  others  passing  by  would  mock  them. 

I  was  astonished  and  grieved,  and  was  just  going  to  ex 
press  my  feelings,  when  I  perceived  by  rny  side  a  beauti 
ful  and  majestic  form,  taller  and  brighter  than  the  sons  of 
men,  and  it  thus  addressed  me — "  Mortal  !  thou  hast  now 
seen  the  frailty  of  thy  race,  and  learned  that  thy  thoughts 
were  vain.  Even  if  men  should  be  wakened  from  their 
cold  sleep,  and  raised  from  the  grave,  the  world  would  still 
be  full  of  enticement  and  trials  ;  appetite  would  solicit  an<} 
passion  would  burn,  as  strongly  as  before — the  imperfec 
tions  of  their  nature  would  accompany  their  return,  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  363 

the  co»u*j«/c»  of  life  would  soon  obliterate  the  recollection 
of  death.  It  is  only  when  this  scene  of  things  is  exchang 
ed  for  another,  that  new  gifts  will  bestow  new  powers,  that 
higher  objects  will  banish  low  desires,  that  the  mind  will 
be  elevated  by  celestial  converse,  the  soul  be  endued  with 
immortal  vigour,  and  man  be  prepared  for  the  course  of 
eternity."  The  angel  then  turned  from  me,  and  with  a 
voice,  which  I  hear  even  now,  cried,  "  Back  to  your  graves, 
ye  trail  ones,  and  rise  no  more,  till  the  elements  are  melt 
ed."  Immediately  a  sound  swept  by  me,  like  the  rushing 
wind — the  dwellings  shrunk  back  into  their  original  forms, 
and  I  was  left  alone  in  the  grave-yard,  with  nought  but  the 
silent  stones  and  the  whispering  trees  around  me. 

The  sun  had  long  been  down — a  few  of  the  largest  stars 
were  timidly  beginning  to  shine,  the  bats  had  left  their 
lurking  places,  my  cheek  was  wet  with  the  dew,  and  I 
was  chilled  by  the  breath  of  evening.  I  arose,  and  re 
turned  to  the  >nn. 


Influence  of  the  Habit  of  Gaming  on  the  Mind  and 
Heart. — NOTT. 

IF  an  occupation  were  demanded  for  the  express  pur 
pose  of  perverting  the  human  intellect,  and  humbling,  and 
degrading,  and  narrowing,  I  had  almost  said,  annihilating, 
the  soul  of  man,  one  more  effectual  could  not  be  devised, 
than  the  one  the  gamester  has  already  devised  and  pre-oc- 
cupied.  And  the  father  and  mother  of  a  family,  who,  in 
stead  of  assembling  their  children  in  the  reading-room,  or 
conducting  them  to  the  altar,  seat  them,  night  after  night, 
beside  themselves  at  the  gaming-table,  do,  so  far  as  this 
part  of  their  domestic  economy  is  concerned,  contribute  not 
only  to  quench  their  piety,  but  also  to  extinguish  their  in 
tellect,  and  convert  them  into  automatons,  living  mummies, 
the  mere  mechanical  members  of  a  domestic  gambling  ma 
chine,  which,  though  but  little  soul  is  necessary,  requires  a 
number  of  human  hands  to  work  it.  And  if,  under  such 
a  blighting  culture,  they  do  not  degenerate  into  a  state  of 
mechanical  existence,  and,  gradually  losing  their  reason, 


364  COMMON-PI,ACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

their  taste,  their  fancy,  become  incapable  of  conversation, 
the  fortunate  parents  may  thank  the  school-house,  the 
church,  the  library,  the  society  of  friends,  or  some  other 
and  less  wretched  part  of  their  own  defective  system,  for 
preventing  the  consummation  of  so  frightful  a  result. 

Such  are  the  morbid  and  sickly  effects  of  play  on  the 
human  intellect.  But  intelligence  constitutes  no  inconsid 
erable  part  of  the  glory  of  man  ;  a  glory  which,  unless 
eclipsed  by  crime,  increases,  as  intelligence  increases. 
Knowledge  is  desirable  with  reference  to  this  world,  but 
principally  so  with  reference  to  the  next ;  not  because 
philosophy,  or  language,  or  mathematics,  will  certainly  be 
pursued  in  heaven,  but  because  the  pursuit  of  them  on 
earth  gradually  communicates  that  quickness  of  perception, 
that  acumen,  which,  as  it  increases,  approximates  towards 
the  sublime  and  sudden  intuition  of  celestial  intelligences, 
and  which  cannot  fail  to  render  more  splendid  the  com 
mencement,  as  well  as  more  splendid  the  progression,  of 
man's  interminable  career. 

But,  while  gaming  leaves  the  mind  to  languish,  it  pro 
duces  its  full  effect  on  the  passions  and  on  the  heart, 
Here,  however,  that  effect  is  deleterious.  None  of  the 
sweet  and  amiable  sympathies  are  at  the  card-table  called 
into  action.  No  throb  of  ingenuous  and  philanthropic  feel 
ing  is  excited  by  this  detestable  expedient  for  killing  time, 
as  it  is  called  ;  and  it  is  rightly  so  called  ;  for  many  a  mur 
dered  hour  will  witness,  at  the  day  of  judgment,  against 
that  fashionable  idler,  who  divides  her  time  between  her 
toilet  and  the  card-table,  no  less  than  against  the  profli 
gate,  hackneyed  in  the  ways  of  sin,  and  steeped  in  all  the 
filth  and  debauchery  of  gambling.  But  it  is  only  amidst  the 
f  1th  and  debauchery  of  gambling,  that  the  full  effects  of 
card-playing  on  the  passions  and  on  the  heart  of  man  are 
seen. 

Here  that  mutual  amity  that  elsewhere  subsists,  ceases ; 
paternal  affection  ceases  ;  even  that  community  of  feeling 
that  piracy  excites,  and  that  binds  the  very  banditti  togeth 
er,  has  no  room  to  operate  ;  for,  at  this  inhospitable  board, 
every  man's  interest  clashes  with  every  man's  interest,  and 
every  man's  hand  is  literally  against  every  man. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  365 

The  love  of  mastery  and  the  love  of  money  are  the 
purest  loves,  of  which  the  gamester  is  susceptible.  And 
even  the  love  of  mastery  loses  all  its  nobleness,  and  de 
generates  into  the  love  of  lucre,  which  ultimately  pre 
dominates,  and  becomes  the  ruling  passion. 

Avarice  is  always  base ;  but  the  gamester's  avarice  is 
doubly  so.  It  is  avarice  unmixed  with  any  ingredient  of 
magnanimity  or  mercy  ;  avarice,  that  wears  not  even  the 
guise  of  public  spirit ;  that  claims  not  even  the  meager 
praise  of  hoarding  up  its  own  hard  earnings.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  is  an  avarice,  that  wholly  feeds  upon  the  losses, 
and  only  delights  itself  with  the  miseries,  of  others  ;  ava 
rice,  that  eyes,  with  covetous  desire,  whatever  is  not  indi 
vidually  its  own  ;  that  crouches  to  throw  its  fangs  over 
that  booty,  by  which  its  comrades  are  enriched ;  avarice, 
that  stoops  to  rob  a  traveller,  that  sponges  a  guest,  and 
that  would  filch  the  very  dust  from  the  pocket  of  a  friend. 

But  though  avarice  predominates,  other  related  passions 
are  called  into  action.  The  bosom,  that  was  once  serene 
and  tranquil,  becomes  habitually  perturbed.  Envy  ran 
kles  ;  jealousy  corrodes  ;  anger  rages  ;  and  hope  and  fear 
alternately  convulse  the  system.  The  mildest  disposition 
grows  morose  ;  the  sweetest  temper  becomes  fierce  and 
fiery,  and  all  the  once  amiable  features  of  the  heart  as 
sume  a  malignant  aspect !  Features  of  the  heart,  did  I 
say  ?  Pardon  my  mistake.  The  finished  gambler  has  none. 
Though  his  intellect  may  not  be,  though  his  soul  may  not 
be,  his  heart  is  quite  annihilated. 

Thus  habitual  gambling  consummates  what  habitual  play 
commences.  Sometimes  its  deadening  influence  prevails, 
even  over  female  virtue,  eclipsing  all  the  loveliness,  and 
benumbing  all  the  sensibility  of  woman.  In  every  circle, 
where  cards  form  the  bond  of  union,  frivolity  and  heart- 
lessness  become  alike  characteristic  of  the  mother  and  the 
daughter ;  devotion  ceases ;  domestic  care  is  shaken  off, 
and  the  dearest  friends,  even  before  their  burial,  are  con 
signed  to  oblivion. 

This  is  not  exaggeration.  I  appeal  to  fact.  Madame  du 
Deffand  was  certainly  not  among  the  least  accomplished  fe 
males,  who  received  and  imparted  that  exquisite  tone  of 
feeling,  that  pervaded  the  most  fashionable  society  of  modern 
31  * 


366  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Paris.  And  yet  it  is  recorded  of  her,  in  the  correspondence 
of  the  Baron  De  Grimm,  whose  veracity  will  not  be  ques 
tioned,  that  when  her  old  and  intimate  friend  and  admirer, 
M.  de  Ponte  de  Vesle,  died,  this  celebrated  lady  came  rather 
late  to  a  great  supper  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  as  it  wa» 
known  that  she  made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  attend  him, 
the  catastrophe  was  generally  suspected.  She  mentioned 
it,  however,  herself,  immediately  on  entering  ;  adding,  that 
it  was  lucky  he  had  gone  off  so  early  in  the  evening,  as 
she  might  otherwise  have  been  prevented  from  appearing. 
She  then  sat  down  to  table,  and  made  a  very  hearty  and 
merry  meal  of  it. 

Afterwards,  when  Madame  de  Chatelet  died,  Madame 
du  Deffand  testified  her  grief  for  the  most  intimate  of  all 
her  female  acquaintance,  by  circulating  over  Paris,  the 
very  next  morning,  the  most  libellous  and  venomous  attack 
on  her  person,  her  understanding,  and  her  morals. 

This  utter  heartlessness,  this  entire  extinction  of  native 
feeling,  was  not  peculiar  to  Madame  du  Deffand  ;  it  per 
vaded  that  accomplished  and  fashionable  circle,  in  which 
she  moved.  Hence  she  herself,  in  her  turn,  experienced 
the  same  kind  of  sympathy,  and  her  remembrance  was 
consigned  to  the  same  instantaneous  oblivion.  During  her 
last  i'lness,  three  of  her  dearest  friends  used  to  come  and 
play  cards,  every  night,  by  the  side  of  her  couch  ;  and,  as 
she  chose  to  die  in  the  middle  of  a  very  interesting  game, 
they  quietly  played  it  out,  and  settled  their  accounts  before 
leaving  the  apartment. 

1  do  not  say  that  such  are  the  uniform,  but  I  do  say,  that 
such  are  the  natural  and  legitimate,  effects  of  gaming  on 
the  female  character.  The  love  of  play  is  a  demon,  which 
only  takes  possession  as  it  kills  the  heart.  But  if  such  is 
the  effect  of  gaming,  on  the  one  sex,  what  must  be  its  ef 
fect  upon  the  other  ?  Will  nature  long  survive  in  bosoms  in 
vaded,  not  by  gaming  only,  but  also  by  debauchery  and 
drunkenness,  those  sister  furies,  which  hell  has  let  k>ose, 
to  cut  off  our  young  men  from  without,  and  our  children 
from  the  streets  ?  No,  it  will  not.  As  we  have  said,  the 
finished  gambler  has  no  heart.  The  club,  with  which  he 
herds,  would  meet,  though  all  its  members  were  in  mourn 
ing.  They  would  meet,  though  it  were  in  an  apartment  of 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  867 

the  charnel-house.  Not  even  the  death  of  kindred  can 
affect  the  gambler.  He  would  play  upon  his  brother's  cof 
fin  *  he  would  play  upon  his  father's  setmlchre. 


The  Preservation  of  the  Church. — MASON. 

.  THE  long  existence  of  the  Christian  Church  would  be 
pronounced,  upon  common  principles  of  reasoning,  impos 
sible.  She  finds  in  every  man  a  natural  and  inveterate 
enemy.  To  encounter  and  overcome  the  unanimous  hos 
tility  of  the  world,  she  boasts  no  political  stratagem,  no  dis 
ciplined  legions,  no  outward  coercion  of  any  kind.  Yet 
her  expectation  is  that  she  will  live  forever.  To  mock 
this  hope,  and  to  blot  out  her  memorial  from  under  heaven, 
the  most  furious  efforts  of  fanaticism,  the  most  ingenious 
arts  of  statesmen,  the  concentrated  strength  of  empires, 
have  been  frequently  and  perseveringly  applied.  The  blood 
of  her  sons  and  her  daughters  has  streamed  like  water ; 
the  smoke  of  the  scaffold  and  the  stake,  where  they  wore 
the  crown  of  martyrdom  in  the  cause  of  Jesus,  has  ascend 
ed  in  thick  volumes  to  the  skies.  The  tribes  of  persecu 
tion  have  sported  over  her  woes,  and  erected  monuments, 
as  they  imagined,  of  her  perpetual  ruin,  But  where  are 
her  tyrants,  and  where  their  empires  ?  The  tyran's  have 
long  since  gone  to  their  own  place  ;  their  names  have  de 
scended  upon  the  roll  of  infamy ;  their  empires  have  pass 
ed,  like  shadows  over  the  rock  ;  they  have  successively  dis 
appeared,  and  left  not  a  trace  behind  ! 

But  what  became  of  the  Church  ?  She  rose  from  her 
ashes  fresh  in  beauty  and  might ;  celestial  glory  beamed 
around  her ;  she  dashed  down  the  monumental  marble  of 
her  foes,  and  they  who  hated  her  fled  before  her  She  has 
celebrated  the  funeral  of  king?  »nd  kingdoms  that  plotted 
her  destruction ;  and,  with  the  inscriptions  of  their  pride, 
has  transmitted  to  posterity  the  records  of  their  shame. 
How  shall  this  phenomenon  be  explained  ?  We  are,  at 
the  present  moment,  witnesses  of  the  fact ;  but  who  can 
unfold  the  mystery  ?  The  book  of  truth  and  life  has  made 
our  wonder  to  cease.  "  THE  LORD  HER  GOD  IN  THH 


868  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PUOSE. 

MIDST  OF  HER  is  MIGHTY."  His  presence  is  a  fountain 
of  health,  and  his  protection  a  "  wall  of  fire."  He  has 
betrothed  her,  in  eternal  covenant,  to  himself.  Her  living 
Head,  in  whom  she  lives,  is  above,  and  his  quickening 
spirit  shall  never  depart  from  her.  Armed  with  divine  vir 
tue,  his  Gospel,  secret,  silent,  unobserved,  enters  the  hearts 
of  men,  and  sets  up  an  everlasting  kingdom.  It  eludes  all 
the  vigilance,  and  baffles  all  the  power,  of  the  adversary. 
Bars,  and  bolts,  and  dungeons  are  no  obstacles  to  its  ap 
proach  :  bonds,  and  tortures,  and  death  cannot  extinguish 
its  influence.  Let  no  man's  hearf  tremble,  then,  because 
of  fear.  Let  no  man  despair  (in  these  days  of  rebuke  and 
blasphemy)  of  the  Christian  cause.  The  ark  is  launched, 
indeed,  upon  the  floods ;  the  tempest  sweeps  along  the  deep; 
the  billows  break  over  her  on  every  side.  But  Jehovah- 
Jesus  has  promised  to  conduct  her  in  safety  to  the  haven 
of  peace.  She  cannot  be  lost  unless  the  pilot  perish. 


Modern  Facilities  for  evangelizing  the  World. — 
BEECHER. 

THE  means  of  extending  knowledge,  and  influencing 
the  human  mind  by  argument  and  moral  power,  are  mul 
tiplied  a  thousand  fold.  The  Lancasterian  mode  of  in 
struction  renders  the  instruction  of  the  world  cheap  and 
easy.  The  improvements  of  the  press  have  reduced  im 
mensely,  and  will  reduce  yet  more,  the  price  of  books, 
bringing  not  only  tracts  and  Bibles,  but  even  libraries, 
within  the  reach  of  every  man  and  every  child.  But  in 
the  primitive  age,  the  light  of  science  beamed  only  on  a 
small  portion  of  mankind.  The  mass  of  mankind  were  not, 
and  could  not  be,  instructed  to  read.  Every  thing  was 
transient  and  fluctuating,  because  so  little  was  made  per 
manent  in  books  and  general  knowledge,  and  so  much  de 
pended  on  the  character,  the  life,  and  energy,  of  the  living 
teacher.  The  press,  that  lever  of  Archimedes,  which  now 
moves  the  world,  was  unknown. 

It  was  the  extinction  of  science  by  the  invasion  of  the 
northern  barbarians,  which  threw  back  the  world  ten  cen- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   PROSE.  369 

luries  ;  and  this  it  effected  through  the  want  of  permanent 
instruction,  and  the  omnipotent  control  of  opinion  which  is 
exerted  by  the  press.  Could  Paul  have  put  in  requisition 
the  press,  as  it  is  now  put  in  requisition  by  Christianity,  ane 
have  availed  himself  of  literary  societies,  and  Bible  societies, 
and  Lancasterian  schools  to  teach  the  entire  population  to 
read,  and  of  Bibles,  and  libraries,  and  tracts,  Mahomet  had 
never  opened  the  bottomless  pit,  and  the  pope  had  never 
set  his  foot  upon  the  neck  of  kings,  nor  deluged  Europe 
with  the  blood  of  the  saints. 

Should  any  be  still  disposed  to  insist,  that  our  advan 
tages  for  evangelizing  the  world  are  not  to  be  compared  with 
those  of  the  apostolic  age,  let  them  reverse  the  scene,  and 
roll  back  the  wheels  of  time,  and  obliterate  the  improve 
ments  of  science,  and  commerce,  and  arts,  which  now  facil 
itate  the  spread  of  the  Gospel.  Let  them  throw  into  dark 
ness  all  the  known  portions  of  the  earth,  which  were  then 
unknown.  Let  them  throw  into  distance  the  propinquity 
of  nations  ;  and  exchange  their  rapid  intercourse  for  cheer 
less,  insulated  existence.  Let  the  magnetic  power  be  for 
gotten,  and  the  timid  navigator  creep  along  the  coasts  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  tremble  and  cling  to  the  shore 
when  he  looks  out  upon  the  broad  waves  of  the  Atlantic. 
Inspire  idolatry  with  the  vigour  of  meridian  manhood,  and 
arm  in  its  defence,  and  against  Christianity,  all  the  civili 
zation,  and  science,  and  mental  power  of  the  world.  Give 
back  to  the  implacable  Jew  his  inveterate  unbelief,  and  his 
vantage-ground,  and  his  disposition  to  oppose  Christianity 
in  every  place  of  his  dispersion,  from  Jerusalem  to  every 
extremity  of  the  Roman  empire.  Blot  out  the  means  of 
extending  knowledge  and  exerting  influence  upon  the  hu 
man  mind.  Destroy  the  Lancasterian  system  of  instruc 
tion,  and  throw  back  the  mass  of  men  into  a  state  of  un- 
reading,  unreflecting  ignorance.  Blot  out  libraries  and 
tracts ;  abolish  Bible,  and  education,  and  tract,  and  mis 
sionary  societies  ;  and  send  the  nations  for  knowledge  parch 
ment,  and  the  slow  and  limited  productions  of  the  pen.  Let 
all  the  improvements  in  civil  government  be  obliterated, 
and  the  world  be  driven  from  the  happy  arts  of  self-gov 
ernment  to  the  guardianship  of  dungeons  and  chains.  Lc( 
liberty  of  conscience  expire,  and  the  Church,  now  emanci- 


870  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

pated,  and  walking  forth  in  her  unsullied  loveliness,  return 
to  the  guidance  of  secular  policy,  and  the  perversions  and 
corruptions  of  an  unholy  priesthood.  And  now  reduce  the 
200,000,000  nominal,  and  the  10,000,000  of  real  Chris 
tians,  spread  over  the  earth,  to  500  disciples,  and  to  twelve 
apostles,  assembled,  for  fear  of  the  Jews,  in  an  upper  cham 
ber,  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  a  secret  prayer-meeting.  And 
give  them  the  power  of  miracles,  and  the  gift  of  tongues, 
and  send  them  out  into  all  the  earth  to  preach  the  Gospel 
to  every  creature. 

Is  this  the  apostolic  advantage  for  propagating  Christian 
ity,  which  throws  into  discouragement  and  hopeless  imbe 
cility  all  our  present  means  of  enlightening  and  disenthral 
ling  the  world  ?  They,  comparatively,  had  nothing  to  be 
gin  with,  and  every  thing  to  oppose  them  ;  and  yet,  in 
three  hundred  years,  the  whole  civilized,  and  much  of  the 
barbarous,  world  was  brought  under  the  dominion  of  Chris 
tianity.  And  shall  we,  with  the  advantage  of  their  labours, 
and  of  bur  numbers,  and  a  thousand  fold  increase  of  oppor 
tunity,  and  moral  power,  stand  halting  in  unbelief,  while 
the  Lord  Jesus  is  still  repeating  the  injunction,  Go  ye  out 
into  all  the  world,  and  preach  the  Gospel  to  every  crea 
ture  ;  and  repeating  the  assurance,  Lo  I  am  with  you  alway, 
even  to  the  end  of  the  world  ?  Shame  on  our  sloth  !  Shame 
upon  our  unbelief! 


Speech*  of  the  Chief  SA-GU-TXJ-WHAT-HAH,  called  by 
the  white  People  RED  JACKET. 

FRIEND  AND  BROTHER — It  was  the  will  of  the  Great 
Spirit  that  we  should  meet  together  this  day.  He  orders 
all  things,  and  has  given  us  a  fine  day  for  our  council.  He 
has  taken  his  garment  from  before  the  sun,  and  caused  it 


*  Delivered  in  answer  to  the  offer  and  request  of  an  American  mis 
sionary,  to  teach  among  the  Indians  the  principles  of  Christianity 
Some  of  their  speeches  have  exhibited  more  of  energy  and  pathos  on 
occasions  specially  adapted  to  excite  these  qualities  ;  but  we  have  seen 
none  which  better  illustrates  the  peculiar  sagacity  and  eloquence  of  this 
tnfortunate  people,  than  the  one  before  us. — ED 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  371 

to  shine  with  brightness  upon  us.  Our  eyes  are  opened 
that  we  see  clearly  ;  our  ears  are  unstopped,  that  we  have 
been  able  to  hear  distinctly  the  words  you  have  spoken 
For  all  these  favours  we  thank  the  Great  Spirit  and  him 
only. 

Brother — Listen  to  what  we  say.  There  was  a  time  when 
our  forefathers  owned  this  great  island.  Their  seats  ex 
tended  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun.  The  Great 
Spirit  had  made  it  for  the  use  of  Indians.  He  had  created 
the  buffalo,  deer,  and  other  animals  for  food.  He  had 
made  the  bear  and  the  beaver.  Their  skins  served  us  for 
clothing.  He  had  scattered  them  over  the  earth,  and 
taught  us  how  to  take  them.  He  had  caused  the  earth  to 
produce  corn  for  bread.  All  this  he  had  done  for  his  red 
children,  because  he  loved  them.  But  an  evil  day  came 
upon  us.  Your  forefathers  crossed  the  great  water,  and 
landed  on  this  island.  Their  numbers  were  small.  They 
found  friends,  and  not  enemies.  They  told  us  they  had  fled 
from  their  own  country  for  fear  of  wicked  men,  and  had 
come  here  to  enjoy  their  religion.  They  asked  for  a-small 
seat.  We  took  pity  on  them,  and  granted  their  request ;  and 
they  sat  down  among  us.  We  gave  them  corn  and  meat ; 
they  gave  us  poison  in  return. 

The  white  people  had  now  found  our  country.  Tidings 
were  carried  back,  and  more  came  among  us.  Yet  we 
did  not  fear  them.  We  took  them  to  be  friends.  They  call 
ed  us  brothers.  We  believed  them,  and  gave  them  a  larger 
seat.  At  length  their  numbers  had  greatly  increased. 
They  wanted  more  land.  They  wanted  our  country.  Our 
eyes  were  opened,  and  our  minds  became  uneasy.  Wars 
took  place.  Indians  were  hired  to  fight  against  Indians, 
and  many  of  our  people  were  destroyed.  Thejr  also  brought 
strong  liquor  among  us.  It  was  strong,  and  powerful,  and 
has  slain  thousands. 

Brother — Our  seats  were  once  large,  and  yours  were 
email.  You  have  now  become  a  great  people,  and  we  have 
scarcel)  a  place  left  to  spread  our  blankets  You  have  got 
our  country,  but  are  not  satisfied ;  you  want  to  force  your 
feligion  among  us. 

Brother — Continue  to  listen.  You  say  that  you  are  sen< 
to  instruct  us  how  to  worship  the  Great  Spirit  agreeably  t* 


372  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

his  miud,  and,  if  we  do  not  take  hold  of  the  religion  which 
you  white  people  teach,  we  shall  be  unhappy  hereafter 
You  say  that  you  are  right,  and  we  are  lost.  How  do  we 
know  this  to  be  true  ?  We  understand  that  your  religion 
is  written  in  a  book.  If  it  was  intended  for  us  as  well  as 
you,  why  has  not  the  Great  Spirit  given  to  us,  and  riot  only 
to  us,  but  why  did  he  not  give  to  our  forefathers,  the  knowl 
edge  of  that  book,  with  the  means  of  understanding  i< 
rightly  ?  We  only  know  what  you  tell  us  about  it.  How 
shall  we  know  when  to  believe,  being  so  often  deceived  by 
the  white  people  ? 

Brother — You  say  there  is  but  one  way  to  worship  and 
serve  the  Great  Spirit.  If  there  is  but  one  religion,  why 
do  you  white  people  differ  so  much  about  it?  Why  not  all 
agreed,  as  you  can  all  read  the  book  ? 

Brother — We  do  not  understand  these  things.  We  are 
told  that  your  religion  was  given  to  your  forefathers,  and 
has  been  handed  down  from  father  to  son.  We  also  have 
a^ligion,  which  was  given  to  our  forefathers,  and  was 
handed  down  to  their  children.  We  worship  in  that  way. 
It  teaches  us  to  be  thankful  for  all  the  favours  we  receive  ; 
to  love  each  other,  and  to  be  united.  We  never  quarrel 
about  religion. 

Brother — The  Great  Spirit  has  made  us  all,  but  he  has 
made  a  great  difference  between  his  white  and  red  chil 
dren.  He  has  given  us  different  complexions  and  different 
customs.  To  you  he  has  given  the  arts.  To  these  he  has 
not  opened  our  eyes.  We  know  these  things  to  be  true. 
Since  he  has  made  so  great  a  difference  between  us  IB 
other  things,  why  may  we  not  conclude  that  he  has  given 
us  a  different  religion  according  to  our  understanding  ?  The 
Great  Spirit  does  right :  he  knows  what  is  best  for  his  chil 
dren.  We  are  satisfied. 

Brother — We  do  not  wish  to  destroy  your  religion,  or 
take  it  from  you.  We  only  wish  to  enjoy  our  own. 

Brother — We  are  told  that  you  have  been  preaching  to 
the  white  people  in  this  place.  These  people  are  our 
neighbours.  We  are  .acquainted  with  them.  We  will  wait 
a  little  while,  and  see  what  effect  your  preaching  has  upon 
them.  If  we  find  it  does  them  good,  makes  them  honest. 


COMiMON-PI,ACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  373 

and  less  disposed  to  cheat  Indians,  we  will  then  consider 
again  of  what  you  have  said. 

Brother — You  have  now  heard  our  answer  to  your  talk. 
This  is  all  we  have  to  say  at  present.  As  we  are  going  tc 
part,  we  will  come  and  take  you  by  the  hand,  and  hope  the 
Great  Spirit  will  protect  you  on  your  journey,  and  return 
you  safe  to  your  friends. 


Extract  from  a  Spt^ch  on  the  British  Treaty* — 
AMES. 

THIS,  sir,  is  a  cause  that  would  be  dishonoured  and  be 
trayed,  if  I  contented  myself  with  appealing  only  to  the 
understanding.  It  is  too  cold,  and  its  processes  are  too 
slow  for  the  occasion.  I  desire  to  thank  God,  that,  since  he 
has  given  me  an  intellect  so  fallible,  he  has  impressed  upon 
me  an  instinct  that  is  sure.  On  a  question  of  shame  and 
honour,  reasoning  is  sometimes  useless,  and  worse.  I  feel 
the  decision  in  my  pulse  :  if  it  throws  no  light  upon  the 
brain,  it  kindles  a  fire  at  the  heart. 

It  is  not  easy  to  deny,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt,  that  &. 
treaty  imposes  an  obligation  on  the  American  nation.  It 
would  be  childish  to  consider  the  president  and  senate 
obliged,  and  the  nation  and  house  free.  What  is  the  obli 
gation  ?  perfect  or  imperfect  ?  If  perfect,  the  debate  is 
brought  to  a  conclusion.  If  imperfect,  how  large  a  part 
of  our  faith  is  pawned  ?  Is  half  our  honour  put  at  a  risk, 
and  is  that  half  too  cheap  to  be  redeemed  ?  How  long  has 
this  hair-splitting  subdivision  of  goo  1  fais.li  been  discovered  ? 
and  why  has  it  escaped  the  researches  of  the  writers  on 
the  law  of  nations  ?  Shall  we  add  a  new  chapter  to  that 


*  The  celebrated  speech,  from  which  this  extract  is  taken,  was  de- 
.ivered  in  the  house  of  representatives,  April  28,  1796,  in  support  of  the 
following  motion :  "  Resolved,  That  it  is  expedient  to  pass  the  laws 
necessary  to  carry  into  effect  the  treaty  lately  concluded  between  the 
United  States  and  the  king  of  tireat  Britain." — After  the  debate,  tha 
votes  stood,  for  carrying  the  tre.ty  into  effect,  51  ,  against  carrying  it 
Into  effect,  48.— En. 
32 


874  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

law  ?  or  insert  this  doctrine  as  a  supplement  to,  or,  mor» 
properly,  a  repeal  of  the  ten  commandments  ? 

On  every  hypothesis,  the  conclusion  is  not  to  be  re 
sisted  :  we  are  either  to  execute  this  treaty,  or  break  our 
faith. 

To  expatiate  on  the  value  of  public  faith,  may  pass  with 
some  men  for  declamation  :  to  such  men  I  have  nothing  to 
say.  To  others  I  will  urge,  can  any  circumstance  mark 
upon  a  people  more  turpitude  and  debasement  ?  Can  any 
thing  tend  more  to  make  men  think  themselves  mean,  or 
degrade  to  a  lower  point  their  estimation  of  virtue,  and  their 
standard  of  action  ?  It  would  not  merely  demoralize  man 
kind  ;  it  tends  to  break  all  the  ligaments  of  society,  to  dis 
solve  that  mysterious  charm,  which  attracts  individuals  to 
the  nation,  and  to  inspire  in  its  stead  a  repulsive  sense  of 
shame  and  disgust. 

What  is  patriotism  ?  Is  it  a  narrow  affection  for  the  spot 
where  a  man  was  born  ?  Are  the  very  clods  where  we 
tread  entitled  to  this  ardent  preference,  because  they  are 
greener.  No,  sir  :  this  is  not  the  character  of  the  virtue, 
and  it  soars  higher  for  its  object.  It  is  an  extended  self- 
love,  mingling  with  all  the  enjoyments  of  life,  and  twist 
ing  itself  with  the  minutest  filaments  of  the  heart.  It  is 
thus  we  jbey  the  laws  of  society,  because  they  are  the 
laws  of  virtue.  In  their  authority  we  see,  not  the  array 
of  force  and  terror,  but  the  venerable  image  of  our  coun 
try's  honour.  Every  good  citizen  makes  that  honour  his 
own  ;  and  cherishes  it  not  only  as  precious,  but  as  sa;red. 
Me  is  willing  to  risk  hi*  life  in  its  defence  ;  and  is  conscious, 
that  he  gains  protection  while  he  gives  it.  For  what  rights 
of  a  citizen  will  be  deemed  inviolable,  when  a  state  re 
nounces  the  principles  that  constitute  their  security  ?  Or, 
if  his  life  should  not  be  invaded,  what  would  its  enjoyments 
be  in  a  country  odious  in  the  eyes  of  strangers,  and  dis 
honoured  in  his  own  ?  Could  he  look  with  affection  and 
veneration  to  such  a  country  as  his  parent  ?  The  sense  of 
having  one  would  die  within  him  ;  he  would  blush  for 
his  patriotism,  if  he  retained  any,  and  justly — for  it  would 
be  a  vice.  He  would  be  a  bas'  Uied  man  in  his  native 
land. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF    PROSE.  375 

I  see  no  exception  to  the  respect  that  is  paid  among  na 
tions  to  the  law  of  good  faith.  If  there  are  cases  in  this 
enlightened  period  when  it  is  violated,  there  are  none  when 
it  is  decried.  It  is  the  philosophy  of  politics,  the  religion 
of  governments.  It  is  observed  by  barbarians :  a  whiff 
of  tobacco  smoke,  or  a  string  of  beads,  gives  not  merely 
binding  force,  but  sanctity,  to  treaties.  Even  in  Algiers, 
A  truce  may  be  bought  for  money;  but,  when  ratified,  even 
Algiers  is  too  wise,  or  too  just,  to  disown  and  annul  its  ob 
ligation.  Thus  we  see,  neither  the  ignorance  of  savages, 
nor  the  principles  of  an  association  for  piracy  and  rapine, 
permit  a  nation  to  despise  its  engagements.  If,  sir,  there 
could  be  a  resurrection  from  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  if  the 
victims  of  justice  could  live  again,  collect  together  and 
form  a  society,  they  would,  however  loath,  soon  find  them 
selves  obliged  to  make  justice,  that  justice  under  which 
they  fell,  the  fundamental  law  of  their  state;  They  would 
perceive  it  was  their  interest  to  make  others  respect,  and 
they  would,  therefore,  soon  pay  some  respect  themselves, 
to  the  obligations  of  good  faith. 

It  is  painful,  I  hope  it  is  superfluous,  to  make  even  the 
supposition  that  America  should  furnish  the  occasion  of  this 
opprobrium.  No  :  let  me  not  even  imagine,  that  a  repub 
lican  government,  sprung,  as  our  own  is,  from  a  people 
enlightened  and  uncorrupted,  a  government  whose  origin 
is  right,  and  whose  daily  discipline  is  duty,  can,  upon  sol 
emn  debate,  make  its  option  to  be  faithless;  can  dare  to 
act  what  despots  dare  not  avow,  what  our  own  example 
evinces  the  states  of  Barbary  are  unsuspected  of.  No  : 
let  me  rather  make  the  supposition  that  Great  Britain  re 
fuses  to  execute  the  treaty,  after  we  have  done  every  thing 
to  carry  it  into  effect.  Is  there  any  language  cf  reproach 
pungent  enough  to  express  your  commentary  on  the  fact  ? 
What  would  you  say  ?  or  rather  what  would  you  not  say  ? 
\Vould  you  not  tell  them,  wherever  an  Englishman  might 
travel,  shame  would  stick  to  him  ?  he  would  disown  his 
country.  You  would  exclaim — "  England,  proud  of  your 
Wealth,  and  arrogant  in  the  possession  of  power,  blush  for 
these  distinctions  which  become  the  vehicles  of  your  dis 
honour  :"  Such  a  nation  might  truly  say  to  corruption, 
thou  art  my  father  ;  and  to  the  worm,  thou  art  my  mothft' 


376  COMMON- -PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

and  my  sister.  We  should  say  of  such  a  race  of  men,  theii 
name  is  a  heavier  burden  than  their  debt. 

The  refusal  of  the  western  posts — inevitable  if  we  reject 
the  treaty — is  a  measure  too  decisive  in  its  nature  to  be  neu 
tral  in  its  consequences.  From  great  causes  we  are  to  look 
for  great  effects.  Will  the  tendency  to  Indian  hostilities 
be  contested  by  any  one  ?  Experience  gives  the  answer. 
The  frontiers  were  scourged  with  war  until  the  negotia 
tion  with  Great  Britain  was  far  advanced ;  and  then  the 
state  of  hostility  ceased.  Perhaps  the  public  agents  of  both 
nations  are  innocent  of  fomenting  the  Indian  war,  and  per 
haps  they  are  not.  We  ought  not,  however,  to  expect,  that 
neighbouring  nations,  highly  irritated  against  each  other, 
will  neglect  the  friendship  of  the  savages.  The  traders 
will  gain  an  influence,  and  will  abuse  it ;  and  who  is  igno 
rant  that  their  passions  are  easily  raised,  and  hardly  re 
strained  from  violence  ?  Their  situation  will  oblige  them 
to  choose  between  this  country  and  Great  Britain  in  case 
the  treaty  should  be  rejected  ;  they  will  not  be  our  friends, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  friends  of  our  enemies. 

If  any,  against  all  these  proofs,  should  maintain  that  the 
peace  with  the  Indians  will  be  stable  without  the  posts,  to 
them  I  will  urge  another  reply.  From  arguments  calcu 
lated  to  produce  conviction,  I  will  appeal  directly  to  the 
hearts  of  those  who  hear  me,  and  ask  whether  it  is  not 
already  planted  there  ?  I  resort  especially  to  the  convic 
tions  of  the  western  gentlemen,  whether,  supposing  no 
posts  and  no  treaty,  the  settlers  will  remain  in  security  ? 
Can  they  take  it  upon  them  to  say,  that  an  Indian  peace, 
under  these  circumstances,  will  prove  firm  ?  No,  sir,  it 
will  not*be  peace,  but  a  sword ;  it  will  be  no  better  than  a 
lure  to  draw  victims  within  reach  of  the  tomahawk.  On 
this  theme  my  emotions  are  unutterable.  If  I  could  find 
words  for  them,  if  my  powers  bore  any  proportion  to  my 
zeal,  I  would  swell  my  voice  to  such  a  note  of  remon 
strance  that  it  should  reach  every  log-house  beyond  the 
mountains.  I  would  say  to  the  inhabitants — Wake  fi  om 
your  false  security  !  your  cruel  dangers,  your  more  ci  uel 
apprehensions,  are  soon  to  be  renewed  :  the  wounds  yet 
unhealed  are  to  be  torn  open  again  :  in  the  day  time  i  our 
path  through  the  woods  will  be  ambushed :  the  darkne  j  o*' 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  37  / 

midnight  will  glitter  with  the  blaze  of  youi  dwellings. 
You  are  a  father — the  blood  of  your  sons  shall  fatten  your 
cornfield :  you  are  a  mother — the  war-whoop  shall  wake 
the  sleep  of  the  cradle. 

On  this  subject,  you  need  not  suspect  any  deception  on 
your  feelings.  It  is  a  spectacle  of  horror,  which  cannot 
be  overdrawn.  If  you  have  nature  in  your  hearts,  they 
will  speak  a  language,  compared  with  which  all  1  have 
said,  or  can  say,  will  be  poor  and  frigid. 

Who  will  accuse  me  of  wandering  out  of  the  subject .' 
Who  will  say  that  I  exaggerate  the  tendencies  of  our  meas 
ures  ?  Will  any  one  answer  by  a  sneer,  that  all  this  is  idle 
preaching  ?  .  Will  any  one  deny  that  we  are  bound — and  I 
would  hope  to  good  purpose — by  the  most  solemn  sanctions 
of  duty  for  the  vote  we  give  ?  Are  despots  alone  to  be  re 
proached  for  unfeeling  indifference  to  the  tears  and  blood  of 
their  subjects  ?  Are  republicans  unresponsible  ?  Have  the 
principles,  on  which  you  ground  the  reproach  upon  cabi 
nets  and  kings,  no  practical  influence,  no  binding  force  ' 
Are  they  merely  themes  of  idte  declamation,  introduced  to 
decorate  the  morality  of  a  newspaper  essay,  or  to  furnish 
pretty  topics  of  harangue  from  the  windows  of  that  state- 
house  ?  I  trust  it  is  neither  too  presumptuous  nor  too  late 
to  ask — Can  you  put  the  dearest  interest  of  society  at  risk 
without  guilt  and  without  remorse  ? 

By  rejecting  the  posts,  we  light  the  savage  fires,  we 
bind  the  victims.  This  day  we  undertake  to  render  ac 
count  to  the  widows  and  orphans  whom  our  decision  will 
make,  to  the  wretches  that  will  be  roasted  at  the  stake,  to 
our  country,  and,  I  do  not  deem  it  too  serious  to  say,  to 
conscience  and  to  God.  We  are  answerable ;  and  if  duty 
be  any  thing  more  than  a  word  of  imposture,  if  conscience 
be  not  a  bugbear,  we  are  preparing  to  make  ourselves  as 
wretched  as  our  country. 

There  is  no  mistake  in  this  case,  there  can  be  none  • 
experience  has  already  been  the  prophet  of  events,  and  the 
cries  of  our  future  victims  have  already  reached  us.  The 
western  inhabitants  are  not  a  silent  and  uncomplaining  sac 
rifice.  The  voice  of  humanity  issues  from  the  shade  of 
the  wilderness  :  it  exclaims  that,  while  one  hand  is  held 
up  to  reject  this  treaty,  the. other  grasps  a  tomahawk.  It 
32* 


878  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

summons  our  imagination  to  the  scenes  that  will  open.  I 
is  no  great  effort  of  the  imagination  to  conceive  that  events 
so  near  are  already  begun.  I  can  fancy  that  I  listen  to  the 
yells  of  savage  vengeance  and  the  shrieks  of  torture  ;  al 
ready  they  seem  to  sigh  in  the  western  wind  ;  already  they 
mingle  with  e  'ery  echo  from  the  mountains. 

I  rose  to  speak  under  impressions  that  1  would  have  re 
sisted  if  I  could.  Those  who  see  me  will  believe,  that 
the  reduced  state  of  my  health  has  unfitted  me,  almost 
equally,  for  much  exertion  of  body  or  mind.  Unprepared 
for  debate  by  careful  reflection  in  my  retirement,  or  by 
long  attention  here,  I  thought  the  resolution  I  had  taken 
to  sit  silent  was  imposed  by  necessity,  and  would  cost  me 
no  effort  to  maintain.  With  a  mind  thus  vacant  of  ideas, 
and  sinking,  as  I  really  am,  under  a  sense  of  weakness,  I 
imagined  the  very  desire  of  speaking  was  extinguished  by 
the  persuasion  that  I  had  nothing  to  say.  Yet  when  I 
come  to  the  moment  of  deciding  the  vote,  I  start  back  with 
dread  from  the  edge  of  the  pit  into  which  we  are  plunging. 
In  my  view,  even  the  minutes  I  have  spent  in  expostu 
lation  have  their  value,  because  they  protract  the  crisis, 
and  the  short  period  in  which  alone  we  may  resolve  to  es 
cape  it. 

I  have  thus  been  led  by  my  feelings  to  speak  more  at 
length  than  I  had  intended.  Yet  I  have,  perhaps,  as  little 
personal  interest  in  the  event  as  any  one  here.  There  is, 
I  believe,  no  member,  who  will  not  think  his  chance  to  be 
a  witness  of  the  consequences  greater  than  mine.  If,  how 
ever,  the  vote  should  pass  to  reject,  and  a  spirit  should  rise, 
as  it  will  with  the  public  disol'ders,  to  make  "  confusion 
worse  confounded,"  even  I,  slender  and  almost  broken  as 
my  hold  upon  life  is,  may  outlive  the  government  and 
constitution  of  my  country. 


Appeal  in  Favour  of  the  Union. — MADISON. 

I  SUBMIT  to  you,  my  fellow-citizens,  these  considera 
tions,  in  lull  confidence  that  the  good  sense,  which  has  so 
often  marked  your  decisions,  will  fallow  them  their  due 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  379 

weight  and  effect ;  and  that  you  will  never  suffer  difficul- 
ties,  however  formidable  in  appearance,  or  however  fash 
ionable  the  error  on  which  they  may  be  founded,  to  drive 
you  into  the  gloomy  and  perilous  scenes,  into  which  the 
advocates  for  disunion  would  conduct  you.  Hearken  not 
to  the  unnatural  voice,  which  tells  you  that  the  people  of 
America,  knit  together,  as  they  are,  by  so  many  cords  of 
affection,  can  no  longer  live  together  as  members  of  the 
same  family ;  can  no  longer  continue  the  mutual  guar 
dians  of  their  mutual  happiness  ;  can  no  longer  be  fel 
low-citizens  of  one  great,  respectable  and  flourishing  em 
pire.  Hearken  not  to  the  voice,  which  petulantly  tells 
you,  that  the  form  of  government  recommended  for  your 
adoption  is  a  novelty  in  the  political  world ;  that  it  has 
never  yet  had  a  place  in  the  theories  of  the  wildest  pro 
jectors  ;  that  it  rashly  attempts  what  it  is  impossible  to  ac 
complish.  No,  my  countrymen  ;  shut  your  ears  against 
this  unhallowed  language.  Shut  your  hearts  against  the 
poison  which  it  conveys  ;  the  kindred  blood,  which  flows 
in  the  veins  of  American  citizens,  the  mingled  blood,  which 
they  have  shed  in  defence  of  their  sacred  rights,  consecrate 
their  union,  and  excite  horror  at  the  idea  of  .their  becom 
ing  aliens,  rivals,  enemies.  And  if  novelties  are  to  be 
shunned,  believe  me,  the  most  alarming  of  all  novelties, 
the  most  wild  of  all  projects,  the  most  rash  of  all  attempts, 
is  that  of  rending  us  in  pieces,  in  order  to  preserve  our  lib 
erties  and  promote  our  happiness.  But  why  is  the  exper 
iment  of  an  extended  republic  to  be  rejected,  merely  be 
cause  it  may  comprise  what  is  new  ?  Is  it  not  the  glory 
of  the  people  of  America,  that,  whilst  they  have  paid  a  de 
cent  regard  to  the  opinions  of  former  times  and  3ther  na 
tions,  they  have  not  suffered  a  blind  veneration  for  antiquity, 
for  custom,  or  for  names,  to  overrule  the  suggestions  of 
their  own  good  sense,  the  knowledge  of  their  own  situ 
ation,  and  the  lessons  of  their  own  experience  ?  To  this 
marly  spirit,  posterity  will  be  indebted  for  the  possession, 
and  the  world  for  the  example,  of  the  numerous  innovations 
displayed  on  the  American  theatre,  in  favour  of  private 
rights  and  public  happiness.  Had  no  important  step  been 
taken  by  the  leaders  of  the  revolution,  for  which  a  precfe 
dent  could  not  be  discovered :  had  no  government  been  estah- 


380  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

lished,  of  which  an  exact  model  did  not  present  itself, — the 
people  of  the  United  States  might,  at  this  moment,  ha/e 
been  numbered  among  the  melancholy  victims  of  misguided 
councils ;  must  at  best  have  been  labouring  under  the 
weight  of  some  of  those  forms,  which  have  crushed  the 
liberties  of  the  rest  of  mankind.  Happily  for  America, 
happily,  we  trust,  for  the  whole  human  race,  they  pursued 
a  new  and  more  noble  course.  They  accomplished  a  rev 
olution,  which  has  no  parallel  in  the  annals  of  human  so 
ciety.  They  reared  fabrics  of  government,  which  have 
no  model  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  They  formed  the  de 
sign  of  a  great  confederacy,  which  it  is  incumbent  on  their 
successors  to  improve  and  perpetuate.  If  their  works  be 
tray  imperfections,  we  wonder  at  the  fewness  of  them. 
If  they  erred  most  in  the  structure  of  the  union,  this  was 
the  work  most  difficult  to  be  executed ;  this  is  the  work 
which  has  been  new-modelled  by  the  act  of  your  conven 
tion,  and  it  is  that  act.  on  which  you  are  now  to  deliberate 
and  decide.  >• 


Grand  electrical  Experiment  of  Dr.  Franklin. — 
STUBER. 

IN  the  year  1749,  he  first  suggested  his  idea  of  explain 
ing  the  phenomena  of  thunder-gusts,  and  of  the  aurora 
borealis,  upon  electrical  principles.  He  points  out  many 
particulars  in  which  lightning  and  electricity  agree  ;  and 
he  adduces  many  facts,  and  reasonings  from  facts,  in  sup 
port  of  his  positions.  In  the  same  year  he  conceived  the 
astonishingly  bold  and  grand  idea  of  ascertaining  the  truth 
of  his  doctrine,  by  actually  drawing  down  the  lightning, 
by  means  of  sharp-pointed  iron  rods  raised  into  the  region 
of  the  clouds.  Even  in  this  uncertain  state,  his  passion  to 
be  useful  to  mankind  displays  itself  in  a  powerful  manner. 
Admitting  the  identity  of  electricity  and  lightning,  and 
knowing  the  power  of  points  in  repelling  bodies  charged 
with  electricity,  and  in  conducting  their  fire  silently  and 
imperceptibly,  he  suggested  the  idea  of  securing  houses. 
chips,  &c.  from  being  damaged  by  lightning,  by  erecting 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PUOSE.  381 

pointed  rods,  that  should  rise  some  feet  above  the  most  ele 
vated  part,  and  descend  some  feet  into  the  ground  or  the  wa 
ter.  The  effect  of  these,  he  concluded,  would  be  either  to 
prevent  a  stroke  by  repelling  the  cloud  beyond  the  striking 
distance,  or  by  drawing  off  the  electrical  fire  which  it  con 
tained  ;  or,  if  they  could  not  effect  this,  they  would  at  least 
conduct  the  electric  matter  to  the  earth,  without  any  injury 
to  the  building. 

It  was  not  until  the  summer  of  1752,  that  he  was  ena 
bled  to  complete  his  grand  and  unparalleled  discovery  by 
experiment.  The  plan  which  he  had  originally  proposed, 
was,  to  erect  on  some  high  tower,  or  other  elevated  place, 
a  sentry  box,  from  which  should  rise  a  pointed  iron  rod, 
insulated  by  being  fixed  in  a  cake  of  resin  Electrified 
clouds,  passing  over  this,  would,  he  conceived,  impart  to  it 
a  portion  of  their  electricity,  which  would  be  rendered  ev 
ident  to  the  senses  by  sparks  being  emitted,  when  a  key, 
the  knuckle,  or  other  conductor,  was  presented  to  it.  Phil 
adelphia,  at  this  time,  afforded  no  opportunity  of  trying  an 
experiment  of  this  kind.  While  Franklin  was  waiting  for 
the  erection  of  a  spire,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
have  more  ready  access  to  the  region  of  clouds  by  means 
of  a  common  kite.  He  prepared  one  by  fastening  two  cross 
sticks  to  a  silk  handkerchief,  which  would  not  suffer  so 
much  from  the  rain  as  paper.  To  the  upright  stick  was 
affixed  an  iron  point.  The  string  was,  as  usual,  of  hemp, 
except  the  lower  end,  which  was  silk.  Where  the  hemp 
en  string  terminated,  a  key  was  fastened.  With  tiiis  ap 
paratus,  on  the  appearance  of  a  thunder-gust  approacKng, 
he  went  out  into  the  commons,  accompanied  by  his  son,  to 
whom  alone  he  communicated  his  intentions,  well  knowing 
the  ridicule,  which,  too  generally  for  the  interest  of  sci 
ence,  awaits  unsuccessful  experiments  in  philosophy.  He 
placed  himself  under  a  shade,  to  avoid  the  rain — his  kite 
was  raised — a  thunder-cloud  passed  over  it — no  sign  of 
electricity  appeared.  He  almost  despaired  of  success, 
When  suddenly  he  observed  ihe  loose  fibres  of  his  string 
to  move  towards  an  erect  position.  He  now  presented  hig 
knuckle  to  the  key,  and  received  a  strong  spark.  How 
exquisite  must  his  sensations  have  been  at  this  moment! 
On  this  experiment  depended  the  fate  of  his  *heory.  If 


382  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PKOSE. 

he  succeeded,  his  name  would  rank  high  among  those  wha 
had  improved  science  ;  if  he  failed,  he  must  inevitably  be 
subjected  to  the  derision  of  mankind,  or,  what  is  worse, 
their  pity,  as  a  well-meaning  man,  but  a  weak,  silly  pro 
jector.  The  anxiety  with  which  he  looked  for  the  result 
of  his  experiment  may  be  easily  conceived.  Doubts  and 
despair  had  begun  to  prevail,  when  the  fact  was  ascertain 
ed  in  so  clear  a  manner,  that  even  the  most  incredulous 
could  no  longer  withhold  their  assent.  Repeated  sparks 
were  drawn  from  the  key,  a  phial  was  charged,  a  shock 
given,  and  all  the  experiments  made  which  are  usually  per 
formed  with  electricity. 


By  these  experiments  Franklin's  theory  was  established 
in  the  most  convincing  manner.  When  the  truth  of  it 
could  no  longer  be  doubted,  envy  and  vanity  endeavoured 
to  detract  from  its  merit.  That  an  American,  an  inhabitant 
of  the  obscure  city  of  Philadelphia,  the  name  of  which  was 
hardly  known,  should  be  able  to  make  discoveries,  and  to 
frame  theories,  which  had  escaped  the  notice  of  the  enlight 
ened  philosophers  of  Europe,  was  too  mortifying  to  be  admit 
ted.  He  must  certainly  have  taken  the  idea  from  some 
one  else.  An  American,  a  being  of  an  inferior  order,  make 
discoveries  ! — Impossible.  It  was  said,  that  the  Abbe  Nol- 
let,  1748,  had  suggested  the  idea  of  the  similarity  of  light 
ning  and  electricity  in  his  Lemons  de  Physique.  It  is  true 
that  the  abbo  mentions  the  idea,  but  he  throws  it  out  as  a 
bare  conjecture,  and  proposes  no  mode  of  ascertaining  the 
truth  of  it  He  himself  acknowledges,  that  Franklin  first 
entertained  the  bold  thought  of  bringing  lightning  from  the 
heavens,  by  means  of  pointed  rods  fixed  in  the  air.  The 
similarity  of  lightning  and  electricity  is  so  strong,  that  we 
need  not  be  surprised  at  notice  being  taken  of  it,  as  soon 
as  electrical  phenomena  became  familiar.  We  find  it  men- 
joned  by  Dr.  Wall  and  Mr.  Grey,  while  the  science  was 
in  its  infancy.  But  the  honour  of  forming  a  regular  theo 
ry  of  thunder-gusts,  of  suggesting  a  mode  of  determining 
the  truth  of  it  by  experiments,  and  of  putting  these  ex 
periments  in  practice,  and  thus  establishing  the  theory  upon 
a  firm  and  solid  basis,  is  incoutc  stably  due  to  Franklin 


COMMON-FLACK    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  383 


Extrication  of  a  Frigate  from  the   Shoals. — 
COOPER. 

THE  extraordinary  activity  of  Griffith,  which  commu 
nicated  itself  with  promptitude  to  the  whole  crew,  was 
produced  by  a  sudden  alteration  in  the  weather.  In  place 
of  the  well-defined  streak  along  the  horizon,  that  has  been 
already  described,  an  immense  body  of  misty  light  appear 
ed  to  be  moving  in,  with  rapidity,  from  the  ocean,  while  a 
distinct  but  distant  roaring  announced  the  sure  approach 
of  the  tempest,  that  had  so  long  troubled  the  waters.  Even 
Griffith,  while  thundering  his  orders  through  the  trumpet, 
and  urging  the  men,  by  his  cries,  to  expedition,  would 
pause,  for  instants,  to  cast  anxious  glances  in  the  direction 
of  the  coming  storm,  and  the  faces  of  the  sailors  who  lay 
on  the  yards  were  turned,  instinctively,  towards  the  same 
quarter  of  the  heavens,  while  they  knotted  the  reef-points, 
or  passed  the  gaskets,  that  were  to  confine  the  unruly  can 
vass  to  the  prescribed  limits. 

The  pilot  alone,  in  that  confused  and  busy  throng,  where 
voice  rose  above  voice,  and  cry  echoed  cry,  in  quick  suc 
cession,  appeared  as  if  he  held  no  interest  in  the  important 
stake.  With  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  approaching 
mist,  and  his  arms  folded  together,  in  composure,  he  stood 
calmly  awaiting  the  result. 

The  ship  had  fallen  off,  with  her  broadside  to  the  sea, 
and  was  become  unmanageable,  and  the  sails  were  already 
brought  into  the  folds  necessary  to  her  security,  when  the 
quick  and  heavy  fluttering  of  canvass  was  thrown  across 
the  water,  with  all  the  gloomy  and  chilling  sensations  that 
such  sounds  produce,  where  darkness  and  danger  unite  to 
appal  the  seaman. 

"  The  schooner  has  it !"  cried  Griffith  ;  "  Barnstable 
has  held  on,  like  himself,  to  the  last  moment — God  send 
that  the  squall  leave  him  cloth  enough  to  keep  him  from 
the  shore !" 

'•'  His  sails  are  easily  handled,"  the  commander  observ 
ed,  "  and  she  must  be  over  the  principal  danger.  Wa 
are  falling  off  before  it,  Mr.  Gray ;  shall  we  try  a  cast  of 
the  lead  ?" 


384  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   PROSE. 

The  pilot  turned  from  his  contemplative  posture,  and 
moved  slowly  across  the  deck,  before  he  returned  any  re 
ply  to  this  question — like  a  man  who  not  only  felt  that 
every  thing  depended  on  himself,  but  that  he  was  equal  tc 
the  emergency. 

"  'Tis  unnecessary,"  he  at  length  said ;  "  'twould  be 
certain  destruction  to  be  taken  aback,  and  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  say,  within  several  points,  how  the  wind  may 
strike  us." 

"  'Tis  difficult  no  longer,"  cried  Griffith  ;  "  for  here  it 
comes,  and  in  right  earnest!" 

The  rushing  sounds  of  the  wind  were  now,  indeed,  heard 
at  hand,  and  the  words  were  hardly  passed  the  lips  of  the 
young  lieutenant,  before  the  vessel  bowed  down  heavily 
to  one  side,  and  then,  as  she  began  to  move  through  the 
water,  rose  again  majestically  to  her  upright  position,  as  if 
saluting,  like  a  courteous  champion,  the  powerful  antago 
nist  with  which  she  was  about  to  contend.  Not  another 
minute  elapsed,  before  the  ship  was  throwing  the  waters 
aside,  with  a  lively  progress,  and,  obedient  to  her  helm, 
was  brought  as  near  to  the  desired  course,  as  the  direction 
of  the  wind  would  allow.  The  hurry  and  bustle  on  the 
yards  gradually  subsided,  and  the  men  slowly  descended 
to  the  deck,  all  straining  their  eyes  to  pierce  the  gloom  in 
which  they  were  enveloped,  and  some  shaking  their  heads 
in  melancholy  doubt,  afraid  to  express  the  apprehensions 
they  really  entertained.  All  on  board  anxiously  waited 
for  the  fury  of  the  gale  ;  for  there  were  none  so  ignorant 
or  inexperienced  in  that  gallant  frigate,  as  not  to  know, 
that  they,  as  yet,  only  felt  the  infant  efforts  of  the  wind. 
Each  moment,  however,  it  increased  in  power,  though  so 
gradual  was  the  alteration,  that  the  relieved  mariners  be 
gan  to  believe  that  all  their  gloomy  forebodings  were  not 
to  be  realized.  During  this  short  interval  of  uncertainty, 
HO  other  sounds  were  heard  than  the  whistling  of  the 
breeze,  as  it  passed  quickly  through  the  mass  of  rigging 
that  belonged  to  the  vessel,  and  the  dashing  of  the  spray, 
that  began  to  fly  from  her  bows,  like  the  foam  of  a 
cataract. 

"  It  blows  fresh,"  cried  Griffith,  who  was  the  first  to 
speak  in  that  moment  of  doubt  and  anxiety  ;  "  but  it  is  no 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE.  385 

more  than  a  cap-full  of  wind,  after  all.  Give  us  elbow- 
room,  and  the  right  canvass,  Mr.  Pilot,  and  I'll  handle  the 
ship  like  a  gentleman's  yacht,  in  this  breeze." 

"  Will  she  stay,  think  ye,  under  this  sail  ?"  said  the  low 
voice  of  the  stranger. 

"  She  will  do  all  that  man,  in  reason,  can  ask  of  wood 
and  iron,"  returned  the  lieutenant ;  "  but  the  vessel  don't 
float  the  ocean  that  will  tack  under  double-reefed  topsails 
alone,  against  a  heavy  sea.  Help  her  with  the  courses,  pi 
lot,  and  you'll  see  her  come  round  like  a  dancing-master." 

"  Let  us  feel  the  strength  of  the  gale  first,"  returned 
the  man  who  was  called  Mr.  Gray,  moving  from  the  side 
of  Griffith  to  the  weather  gang-way  of  the  vessel,  where 
he  stood  in  silence,  looking  ahead  of  the  ship,  with  an  air 
of  singular  coolness  and  abstraction. 

All  the  lanterns  had  been  extinguished  on  the  deck  of  the 
frigate,  when  her  anchor  was  secured,  and  as  the  first  mist 
of  the  gale  had  passed  over,  it  was  succeeded  by  a  faint 
light,  that  was  a  good  deal  aided  by  the  glittering  foam  of 
the  waters,  which  now  broke  in  white  curls  around  the 
vessel,  in  every  direction.  The  land  could  be  faintly  dis 
cerned,  rising,  like  a  heavy  bank  of  black  fog,  above  the 
margin  of  the  waters,  and  was  only  distinguishable  from 
the  heavens,  by  its  deeper  gloom  and  obscurity.  The  last 
rope  was  coiled,  and  deposited  in  its  proper  place,  by  the  sea- 
inen,  and  for  several  minutes  the  stillness  of  death  pervaded 
the  crowded  decks.  It  was  evident  to  every  one,  that  their 
ship  was  dashing  at  a  prodigious  rate  through  the  waves ; 
and,  as  she  was  approaching,  with  such  velocity,  the  quar 
ter  of  the  bay  where  the  shoals  and  dangers  were  known 
to  be  situated,  nothing  but  the  habits  of  the  most  exact 
discipline  could  suppress  the  uneasiness  of  the  officers  and 
tren  within  their  own  bosoms.  At  length  the  voice  of 
Captain  Munson  was  heard,  calling  to  the  pilot. 

"  Shall  I  send  a  hand  into  the  chains,  Mr.  Gray,"  he 
3aid,  "  and  try  our  water  ?" 


"  Tack  your  ship,  sir,  tack  your  ship ;  I  would  see  how 
she  works,  before  we  reach  the  point,  where  she  must  be 
have  well,  or  we  perish." 

33 


386  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PKOSE. 

Griffith  gazed  after  him  in  wonder,  while  the  pilot  slow 
ly  paced  the  quarter-deck,  and  then,  rousing  from  his 
trance,  gave  forth  the  cheering  order  that  called  each  man 
to  his  station,  to  perform  the  desired  evolution.  The  con 
fident  assurances  which  the  young  officer  had  given  to  the 
pilot,  respecting  the  qualities  of  his  vessel,  and  his  own 
ability  to  manage  her,  were  fully  realized  by  the  result. 
The  helm  was  no  sooner  put  a-lee,  than  the  huge  ship  bore 
up  gallantly  against  the  wind,  and,  dashing  directly  through 
the  waves,  threw  the  foam  high  into  the  air,  as  she  'ooked 
boldly  into  the  very  eye  of  the  wind,  and  then,  yielding 
gracefully  to  its  power,  she  fell  off  on  the  other  tack,  with 
her  head  pointed  from  those  dangerous  shoals  that  she  had 
so  recently  approached  with  such  terrifying  velocity.  The 
heavy  yards  swung  rov  nd,  as  if  they  had  been  vanes  to 
indicate  the  cu-rents  of  the  air,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
*Hgate  again  moved,  with  stately  progress,  through  the 
water,  leaving  the  rocks  and  shoals  behind  her  on  one  side 
»f  the  bay,  but  advancing  towards  those  that  offered  equal 
danger  on  the  other. 

During  this  time,  the  sea  was  becoming  more  agitated, 
and  the  violence  of  the  wind  was  gradually  increasing. 
The  latter  no  longer  whistled  amid  the  cordage  of  the  ves 
sel,  but  it  seemed  to  howl,  surlily,  as  it  passed  the  compli 
cated  machinery  that  the  frigate  obtruded  on  its  path.  An 
endless  succession  of  white  surges  rose  above  the  heavy 
billows,  and  the  very  air  was  glittering  with  the  light  that 
was  disengaged  from  the  ocean.  The  ship  yielded,  each 
moment,  more  and  more  before  the  storm,  and,  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  from  the  time  that  she  had  lifted  her  anchor, 
she  was  driven  along,  with  tremendous  fury,  by  the  full 
power  of  a  gale  of  wind.  Still,  the  hardy  and  experienced 
mariners,  who  directed  her  movements,  held  her  to  the 
course  that  was  necessary  to  their  preservation,  and  still 
Griffith  gave  forth,  when  directed  by  their  unknown  pilot, 
those  orders  that  turned  her  in  the  narrow  channel  where 
safety  was,  alone,  to  be  found. 

So  far,  the  performance  of  his  duty  appeared  easy  to  the 
stranger,  and  he  gave  the  required  directions  in  those  still, 
calm  tones,  that  formed  so  remarkable  a  contrast  to  the 
responsibility  of  his  situation.  But  when  the  land  was  be- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  387 

coming  dim,  in  distance  as  well  as  darkness,  and  the  agitated 
sea  was  only  to  be  discovered  as  it  swept  by  them  in  fbamv 
he  broke  in  upon  the  monotonous  roaring  of  the  tempest, 
with  the  sounds  of  his  voice,  seeming  to  shake  off  his  apa 
thy,  and  rouse  himself  to  the  occasion. 

"  Now  is  the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  Mr.  Griffith," 
he  cried  ;  "  here  we  get  the  true  tide  and  the  real  danger. 
Place  the  best  quarter-master  of  your  ship  in  those  chains, 
and  let  an  officer  stand  by  him,  and  see  that  he  gives  us 
the  right  water." 

• "  I  will  take  that  office  on  myself,"  said  the  captain ; 
"  pass  a  light  into  the  weather  main-chains." 

"  Stand  by  your  braces  !"  exclaimed  the  pilot,  with  start 
ling  quickness.  "  Heave  away  that  lead  !" 

These  preparations  taught  the  crew  to  expect  the  crisis, 
and  every  officer  and  man  stood  in  fearful  silence,  at  his 
assigned  station,  awaiting  the  issue  of  the  trial.  E^en  the 
quarter-master  at  the  cun  gave  out  his  orders  to  the  men 
at  the  wheel  in  deeper  and  hoarser  tones  than  usual,  as  if 
anxious  not  to  disturb  the  quiet  and  order  of  the  vessel. 

While  this  deep  expectation  pervaded  the  frigate,  the 
piercing  cry  of  the  leadsman,  as  he  called,  "  By  the  mark 
seven!"  rose  above  the  tempest,  crossed  over  the  decks,  ani 
appeared  to  pass  away  to  leeward,  borne  on  the  blast,  lik« 
the  warnings  of  some  water  spirit. 

"  'Tis  well,"  returned  the  pilot,  calmly ;  "  try  it 
again." 

The  short  pause  was  succeeded  by  another  cry,  "  and  - 
a  half-five  !" 

"  She  shoals  !  she  shoals  !"  exclaimed  Griffith ;  "  keep 
her  a  good  full." 

"  Ay !  you-  must  hold  the  vessel  in  command,  now," 
said  the  pilot,  with  those  cool  tones  that  are  most  appalling 
in  critical  moments,  because  they  seem  to  denote  most 
preparation  and  care. 

The  third  call  of  "  By  the  deep  four  !"  was  followed  by 
a  prompt  direction  from  the  stranger  to  tack. 

Griffith  seemed  to  emulate  the  coolness  of  the  pilot,  in 
issuing  the  necessary  orders  to  execute  this  manoeuvre. 

The  vessel  rose  slowly  from  the  inclined  position  into 
which  she  had  been  forced  by  the  tempest,  and  the  saill 


388  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

were  shaking  violently,  as  if  to  release  themselves  from 
their  confinement,  while  the  ship  stemmed  the  billows, 
when  the  well-known  voice  of  the  sailing-master  was  heard 
shouting  from  the  forecastle — 

"  Breakers  !   breakers,  dead  ahead  '" 

This  appalling  sound  seemed  yet  to  be  lingering  about 
the  ship,  when  a  second  voice  cried — 

"  Breakers  on  our  lee-bow  !" 

"  We  are  in  a  bight  of  the  shoals,  Mr.  Gray,"  said 
the  commander.  "  She  loses  her  way  ;  perhaps  an  anchor 
might  hold  her." 

"  Clear  away  that  best-bciwer !"  shouted  Griffith  through 
his  trumpet. 

"  Hold  on !"  cried  the  pilot,  in  a  voice  that  reached 
the  very  hearts  of  all  who  heard  him  ;  "  hold  on  every 
thing." 

The  young  man  turned  fiercely  to  the  daring  stranger, 
who  thus  defied  the  discipline  of  his  vessel,  and  at  once 
demanded — 

"  Who  is  it  that  dares  to  countermand  my  orders  ? — is  it 
not  enough  that  you  run  the  ship  into  danger,  but  you  must 
interfere  to  keep  her  there  !  If  another  word — " 

"  Peace,  Mr.  Griffith,"  interrupted  the  captain,  bending 
from  the  rigging,  his  gray  locks  blowing  about  in  the  wind, 
and  adding  a  look  of  wildness  to  the  haggard  care  that  he 
exhibited  by  the  light  of  his  lantern  ;  "  yield  the  trumpet 
to  Mr.  Gray  ;  he  alone  can  save  us." 

Griffith  threw  his  speaking  trumpet  on  the  deck,  and,  as 
he  walked  proudly  away,  muttered  in  bitterness  of  feel 
ing— 

"  Then  all  is  lost,  indeed,  and,  among  the  rest,  the  foolish 
hopes  with  which  I  visited  this  coast." 

There  was,  however,  no  time   for  reply ;  the   ship  had 
been  rapidly  running  into  the  wind,  and,  as  the  efforts  of 
the  crew  were  paralyzed  by  the  contradictory  orders  they 
had  heard,  she  gradually  lost  her  way,  and,  in  a  few  sec 
ouds,  all  her  sails  were  taken  aback. 

Before  the  crew  understood  their  situation,  the  pilot  had 
applied  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and,  in  a  voice  that  rose 
above  the  tempest,  he  thundered  forth  his  orders.  Each 
command  was  given  dis'dnctly,  and  with  a  precision  that 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  389 

showed  him  to  be  master  of  his  profession.  The  helm  was 
kept  fast,  the  head  yards  swung  up  heavily  against  the  wind, 
and  the  vessel  was  soon  whirling  round  on  her  heel,  with 
a  retrograde  movement. 

Griffith  was  too  much  of  a  seaman,  not  to  perceive  that 
the  pilot  had  seized,  with  a  perception  almost  intuitive,  the 
only  method  that  promised  to  extricate  the  vessel  from  her 
situation.  He  was  young,  impetuous,  and  proud ;  but  he 
was  also  generous.  Forgetting  his  resentment  and  his 
mortification,  he  rushed  forward  among  the  men,  and,  by 
his  presence  and  example,  added  certainty  to  the  experi 
ment.  The  ship  fell  off  slowly  before  the  gale,  and  bowed 
her  yards  nearly  to  the  water,  as  she  felt  the  blast  pouring 
its  fury  on  her  broadside,  while  the  surly  waves  beat  vio 
lently  against  her  stern,  as  if  in  reproach  at  departing  from 
her  usual  manner  of  moving. 

The  voice  of  the  pilot,  however,  was  still  heard,  steady 
and  calm, and  yet  so  clear  and  high  as  to  reach  ev,ery  ear; 
and  the  obedient  seamen  whirled  the  yards  at  his  bidding, 
fn  despite  of  the  tempest,  as  if  they  handled  the  toys  of  their 
childhood.  When  the  ship  had  fallen  off  dead  before  the 
wind,  her  head  sails  were  shaken,  her  after  yards  trimmed, 
and  her  helm  shifted,  before  she  had  time  to  run  upon  the 
danger  that  had  threatened,  as  well  to  leeward  as  to  wind 
ward.  The  beautiful  fabric,  obedient  to  her  government, 
threw  her  bows  up  gracefully  towards  the  wind  again,  and, 
as  her  sails  were  trimmed,  moved  out  from  amongst  the 
dangerous  shoals,  in  which  she  had  been  embayed,  as  stead 
ily  and  swiftly  as  she  had  approached  them. 

A  moment  of  breathless  astonishment  succeeded  the 
accomplishment  of  this  nice  manoeuvre,  but  there  was  no 
time  for  the  usual  expressions  of  surprise.  The  stranger 
sti.l  held  the  trumpet,  and  continued  to  lift  his  voice  amid 
the  bowlings  of  the  blast,  whenever  prudence  or  skill  di 
rected  any  change  in  the  management  of  the  ship.  For 
an  hour  longer,  there  was  a  fearful  struggle  for  their  pres 
ervation,  the  channel  becoming,  at  each  step,  more  com- 
p..cated,  and  the  shoals  thickening  around  the  mariners, 
on  every  side.  The  lead  was  cast  rapidly,  and  the  quick 
eye  of  the  pilot  seemed  to  pierce  the  darkness,  with  a  keen 
ness  of  vision  that  exceeded  human  power.  It  was  appa 
33" 


890  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

rent  to  all  in  the  vessel,  that  they  were  under  the  guidance 
of  one  who  understood  the  navigation  thoroughly,  and  theif 
exertions  kept  pace  with  their  reviving  confidence.  Again 
and  again  the  frigate  appeared  to  be  rushing  blindlj  on 
shoals,  where  the  sea  was  covered  with  foam,  and  where 
destruction  would  have  been  as  sudden  as  it  was  certain, 
when  the  clear  voice  of  the  stranger  was  heard  warning 
them  of  the  danger,  and  inciting  them  to  their  duty. 
The  vessel  was  implicitly  yielded  to  his  government,  and 
during  those  anxious  moments,  when  she  was  dashing  the 
waters  aside,  throwing  the  spray  over  her  enormous  yards, 
each  ear  would  listen  eagerly  for  those  sounds  that  had 
obtained  a  command  over  the  crew,  that  can  only  be  ac 
quired,  under  such  circumstances,  by  great  steadiness  and 
consummate  skill.  The  ship  was  recovering  from  the  in 
action  of  changing  her  course,  in  one  of  those  critical  tacks 
that  she  had  made  so  often,  when  the  pilot,  for  the  first 
time,  addressed  the  commander  of  the  frigate,  who  still 
continued  to  superintend  the  all-important  duty  of  the 
leadsman. 

"  Now  is  the  pinch,"  he  said ;  "  and  if  the  ship  behaves 
well,  we  are  safe — but  if  otherwise,  all  we  have  yet  done 
will  be  useless." 

The  veteran  seaman  whom  he  addressed  left  the  chains 
at  this  portentous  notice,  and,  calling  to  his  first  lieuten 
ant,  required  of  the  stranger  an  explanation  of  his  warn 
ing. 

"  See  you  yon  light  on  the  southern  headland  ?"  re 
turned  the  pilot ;  "  you  may  know  it  from  the  star  near 
it  by  its  sinking,  at  times,  in  the  ocean.  Now  observe 
the  hummoc,  a  little  north  of  it,  looking  like  a  shadow  in 
the  horizon — 'tis  a  hill  far  inland.  If  we  keep  that  light 
open  from  the  hill,  we  shall  do  well — but  if  not,  we  surely 
go  to  pieces." 

"  Let  us  tack  again !"  exclaimed  the  lieutenant. 

The  pilot  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied — 

"  There  is  no  more  tacking  or  box-hauling  to  be  done  to 
night.  We  have  barely  room  to  pass  out  of  the  shoals  on 
this  course,  and  if  we  can  weather  the  '  Devil's-Grip,'  we 
clear  their  outermost  point — but  if  not,  as  I  said  before, 
there  is  but  an  alternative." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  1'ROSE.  391 

"  If  we  had  beaten  out  the  way  we  entered,"  exclaimed 
Griffith,  "  we  should  have  done  well." 

"  Say,  also,  if  the  tide  would  have  let  us  do  so,"  re 
turned  the  pilot  calmly.  "  Gentlemen,  we  must  be  prompt ; 
we  have  but  a  mile  to  go,  and  the  ship  appears  to  fly.  That 
topsail  is  not  enough  to  keep  her  up  to  the  wind ;  we  want 
both  jib  and  mainsail." 

"  'Tis  a  perilous  thing  to  loosen  canvass  in  such  a  tem 
pest !"  observed  the  doultful  captain. 

<5  It  must  be  done,"  returned  the  collected  stranger ; 
"  re  perish,  without  it — see  !  the  light  already  touches 
the  edge  of  the  hummoc ;  the  sea  casts  us  to  leeward  !" 

"  It  shall  be  done  !"  cried  Griffith,  seizing  the  trumpet 
from  the  hand  of  the  pilot. 

The  orders  of  the  lieutenant  were  executed  almost  as 
soon  as  issued,  and,  every  thing  being  ready,  the  enormous 
folds  of  the  mainsail  were  trusted,  loose,  to  the  blast.  There 
*  was  an  instant  when  the  result  was  doubtful ;  the  tremen 
dous  threshing  of  the  heavy  sails,  seeming  to  bid  defiance 
to  all  restraint,  shaking  the  ship  to  her  centre  ;  but  art  and 
strength  prevailed,  and  gradually  the  canvass  was  distend 
ed,  and,  bellying  as  it  filled,  was  drawn  down  to  its  usual 
place,  by  the  power  of  a  hundred  men.  The  vessel  yield 
ed  to  this  immense  addition  of  force,  and  bowed  before  it, 
like  a  reed  bending  to  a  breeze.  But  the  success  of  the 
measure  was  announced  by  a  joyful  cry  from  the  stranger, 
that  seemed  to  burst  from  his  inmost  soul. 

"  She  feels  it !  she  springs  her  luff!  observe,"  he  said, 
ft  the  light  opens  from  the  hummoc  already ;  if  she  will 
only  bear  her  canvass,  we  shall  go  clear  !" 

A  report,  like  that  of  a  cannon,  interrupted  his  excla 
mation,  and  something  resembling  a  white  cloud  was  seen 
drifting  before  the  wind  from  the  head  of  the  ship,  till  it 
was  driven  into  the  gloom  far  to  leeward. 

"  'Tis  the  jib,  blown  from  the  bolt-ropes,"  said  the  com 
mander  of  the  frigate.  "  This  is  no  time  to  spread  light 
duck — but  the  mainsail  may  stand  it  yet." 

"Th<»  <sai!  would  laugh  at  a  tornado,"  returned  the  lieu 
tenant  ;  "  but  that  mast  springs  like  a  piece  of  steel." 

"  Silence  all !"  cried  the  pilot.  "  Now,  gentlemen,  we 
shall  soon  know  our  fate.  Let  her  luff — luff  you  can '" 


392  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

This  warning  effectually  closed  all  discourse,  and  the 
hardy  mariners,  knowing  that  they  had  already  done  all  in 
the  power  of  man  to  ensure  their  safety,  stood  in  breath 
less  anxiety,  awaiting  the  result.  At  a  short  distance  ahead 
of  them,  the  whole  ocean  was  white  with  foam,  and  the 
waves,  instead  of  rolling  on,  in  regular  succession,  appear 
ed  to  be  tossing  about  in  mad  gambols.  A  single  streak 
of  dark  billows,  not  half  a  cable's  length  in  width,  could 
he  discerned  running  into  this  chaos  of  water;  but  it  was 
soon  lost  to  the  eye,  amid  the  •  confusion  of  the  disturbed 
element.  Along  this  narrow  path  the  vessel  moved  more 
heavily  than  before,  being  brought  so  near  the  wind  as  to 
keep  her  sails  touching.  The  pilot  silently  proceeded  to 
the  wheel,  and,  with  his  own  hands,  he  undertook  the 
steerage  of  the  ship.  No  noise  proceeded  from  the  frigate 
to  interrupt  the  horrid  tumult  of  the  ocean,  and  she  enter 
ed  the  channel  among  the  breakers,. with  the  silence  of  a 
desperate  calmness.  Twenty  times,  as  the  foam  rolled 
away  to  leeward,  the  crew  were  on  the  eve  of  uttering 
their  joy,  as  they  supposed  the  vessel  past  the  danger ;  but 
breaker  after  breaker  would  still  rise  before  them,  follow 
ing  each  other  into  the  general  mass,  to  check  their  exul 
tation.  Occasionally,  the  fluttering  of  the  sails  would  be 
heard  ;  and,  when  the  looks  of  the  startled  seamen  were 
turned  to  the  wheel,  they  beheld  the  stranger  grasping  its 
spokes,  with  his  quick  eye  glancing  from  the  water  to  the 
canvass.  At  length  the  ship  reached  a  point,  where  she 
appeared  to  be  rushing  directly  into  the  jaws  of  destruc 
tion,  when,  suddenly,  her  course  was  changed,  and  her 
head  receded  rapidly  from  the  wind.  At  the  same  instant, 
the  voice  of  the  pilot  was  heard,  shouting — 
"  Square  away  the  yards  ! — in  mainsail !" 
A  general  burst  from  the  crew  echoed,  "  Square  away 
the  yards  !"  and,  quick  as  thought,  the  frigate  was  seen 
gliding  along  the  channel,  before  the  wind.  The  eye  had 
hardly  time  to  dwell  on  the  foam,  which  seemed  like  clouds 
driving  in  the  heavens,  and  directly  the  gallant  vessel  is 
sued  from  her  perils,  and  rose  and  fell  on  the  heavy  waves 
>f  the  open  sea. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  393 


Lafayette's  first  Visit  to  America. — TICKNOR 

WHEN  only  between  sixteen  and  seventeen,  Lafayette 
was  married  to  the  daughter  of  the  Duke  d'Ayen,  son  of 
the  Duke  de  Noailles,  and  grandson  to  the  great  and  good 
Chancellor  d'Aguesseau  ;  and  thus  his  condition  in  life 
seemed  to  be  assured  to  him  among  the  most  splendid  and 
powerful  in  the  empire.  His  fortune,  which  had  been 
accumulating  during  a  long  minority,  was  vast ;  his  rank 
was  with  the  first  in  Europe ;  his  connexions  brought  him 
the  support  of  the  chief  persons  in  France ;  and  his  indi 
vidual  character — the  warm,  open  and  sincere  manners, 
which  have  distinguished  him  ever  since,  and  given  him 
such  singular  control  over  the  minds  of  men — made  him 
powerful  in  the  confidence  of  society  wherever  he  wont. 
It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  life  had  nothing  further  to  offer 
him,  than  he  could  surely  obtain  by  walking  in  the  path 
that  was  so  bright  before  him. 

It  was  at  this  period,  however,  that  his  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  were  first  turned  towards  these  thirteen  colonies,  then 
in  the  darkest  and  most  doubtful  passage  of  their  struggle 
for  independence.  He  made  himself  acquainted  with  our 
agents  at  Paris,  and  learned  from  them  the  state  of  our  af 
fairs.  Nothing  could  be  less  tempting  to  him,  whether  he 
sought  military  reputation,  or  military  instruction ;  for  our 
army,  at  that  moment  retreating  through  New  Jersey,  and 
leaving  its  traces  of  blood  from  the  naked  and  torn  feet  of 
the  soldiery,  as  it  hastened  onward,  was  in  a  state  too  hum 
ble  to  offer  either.  Our  credit,  too,  in  Europe  was  entire 
ly  gone,  so  that  the  commissioners,  (as  they  were  called, 
without  having  any  commission,)  to  whom  Lafayette  still 
persisted  in  offering  his  services,  were  obliged,  at  last,  to 
acknowledge,  that  they  could  not  even  give  him  decent 
means  for  his  conveyance.  "  Then,"  said  he,  "  I  shall 
purchase  and  fit  out  a  vessel  for  myself."  He  did  so.  The 
vessel  was  prepared  at  Bordeaux,  and  sent  round  to  one 
of  the  nearest  ports  in  Spain,  'that  it  might  be  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  French  government.  In  order  more  effectu 
ally  to  conceal  his  purposes,  he  made,  just  before  his  em- 
Dai  kation.  a  visit  of  a  few  weeks  in  England,  (the  only 


894  COMMON-PL  VCE  BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

time  he  was  ever  there,)  and  was  much  sought  in  English 
society.  On  his  return  to  France,  he  did  not  stop  at  all 
in  the  capital,  even  to  see  his  own  family,  but  hastened, 
with  all  speed  and  secrecy,  to  make  good  his  escape  from 
the  country.  It  was  not  until  he  was  thus  on  his  way 
to  embark,  that  his  romantic  undertaking  began  to  bs 
known. 

The  effect  produced  in  the  capital  and  at  court  by  it? 
publication  was  greater  than  we  should  now,  perhaps,  im 
agine.  Lord  Stormont,  the  English  ambassador,  required 
the  French  ministry  to  despatch  an  order  for  his  arrest,  not 
only  to  Bordeaux,  but  to  the  French  commanders  on  the 
West  India  station  ;  a  requisition  with  which  the  ministry 
readily  complied,  for  they  were  at  that  time  anxious  to  pre 
serve  a  good  understanding  vith  England,  and  were  seri 
ously  angry  with  a  young  man  who  had  thus  put  in  jeop 
ardy  the  relations  of  the  two  countries.  In  fact,  at  Pas 
sage,  on  the  very  borders  of  France  and  Spain,  a  lettre  de 
cachet  overtook  him,  and  he  was  arrested  and  carried  back 
to  Bordeaux.  There,  of  course,  his  enterprise  was  near 
being  finally  stopped ;  but,  watching  his  opportunity,  and 
assisted  by  one  or  two  friends,  he  disguised  himself  as  a 
courier,  with  his  face  blacked  and  false  hair,  and  rode  on, 
ordering  post  horses  for  a  carriage,  which  he  had  caused 
to  follow  him  at  a  suitable  distance,  for  this  very  purpose, 
and  thus  fairly  passed  the  frontiers  of  the  two  kingdoms, 
only  three  or  four  hours  before  his  pursuers  -reached  them. 
He  soon  arrived  at  the  port  where  his  vessel  was  waiting 
for  him.  His  fami'  /,  however,  still  followed  him  with  so 
licitations  to  relurn,  which  he  never  received  ;  and  the  so 
ciety  of  the  court  and  capital,  according  to  Madame  du 
Deffand's  account  of  it,  was  in  no  common  state  of  excite 
ment  on  the  occasion.  Something  of  the  same  sort  hap 
pened  in  London.  "  We  talk  chiefly,"  says  Gibbon,  in  a 
letter  dated  April  12th,  1777,  "  of  the  Marquis  de  Lafa 
yette,  who  was  here  a  few  weeks  ago.  He  is  about  twenty, 
with  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  livres  a  year ;  the 
nephew  of  Noailles,  who  is  ambassador  here.  He  has 
bought  the  Puke  of  Kingston's  yacht,  [a  mistake,]  and  is 
gone  to  join  he  Americans.  The  court  appear  to  be  angry 
With  him.'* 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  C  F  PROSE.  395 

Immediately  on  arriving  the  secord  time  at  Passage,  the 
wind  being  fair,  he  embarked.  The  usual  course,  lor 
French  vessels  attempting  to  trade  with  our  colonies  at  that 
period,  was,  to  sail  for  the  West  Indies,  and  then,  coming 
up  along  our  coast,  enter  where  they  could.  But  this 
course  would  have  exposed  Lafayette  to  the  naval  com 
manders  of  his  own  nation,  and  he  had  almost  as  much  rea 
son  to  dread  them  as  to  dread  British  cruisers.  When, 
therefore,  they  were  outside  of  the  Canary  Islands,  La 
fayette  required  his  captain  to  lay  their  course  directly  for 
the  United  States.  The  captain  refused,  alleging  that,  if 
they  should  be  taken  by  a  British  force,  and  carried  into 
Halifax,  the  French  government  would  never  reclaim 
them,  and  they  could  hope  for  nothing  but  a  slow  death  in 
a  dungeon  or  a  prison-ship.  This  was  true,  but  Lafa 
yette  knew  it  before  he  made  the  requisition.  He  there 
fore  insisted,  until  the  captain  refused  in  the  most  positive 
manner.  Lafayette  then  told  him  that  the  ship  was  his 
own  private  property,  that  he  had  made  his  own  arrange 
ments  concerning  it,  and  that  if  he,  the  captain,  would 
not  sail  directly  for  the  United  States,  he  should  be  put  in 
irons,  and  his  command  given  to  the  next  officer.  The 
captain,  of  course,  submitted,  and  Lafayette  gave  him  a 
bond  for  forty  thousand  francs,  in  case  of  any  acciden* 
They  therefore  now  made  sail  directly  for  the  southern  por 
tion  of  the  United  States,  and  arrived  unmolested  at  Charles 
ton,  South  Carolina,  on  the  25th  of  April,  1777. 

The  sensation  produced  by  his  appearance  in  this  coun 
try  was,  of  course,  much  greater  than  that  produced  in 
Europe  by  his  departure.  It  still  stands  forth  as  one  of  the 
most  prominent  and  important  circumstances  in  our  revo 
lutionary  contest;  and,  as  has  often  been  said  by  one  who 
bore  no  small  part  in  its  trials  and  success,  none  but  those, 
who  were  then  alive,  can  believe  what  an  impulse  it  gave 
to  the  hopes  of  a  population  almost  disheartened  by  a  long 
series  of  disasters.  And  well  it  might ;  for  it  taught  us, 
that,  in  the  first  rank  of  the  first  nobility  in  Europe,  men 
could  still  be  found,  who  not  only  took  au  interest  in  our 
struggle,  but  were  willing  to  share  our  sufferings ;  that 
our  obscure  and  almost  desperate  contest  for  freedom,  in  a 
remote  quarter  of  the  world,  could  yet  find  supporters 


396  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

among  those,  who  were  the  most  natural  and  powerful  al 
lies  of  a  splendid  despotism  ;  that  we  were  the  objects  of  a 
regard  and  interest  throughout  the  world,  which  would  add 
to  our  own  resources  sufficient  strength  to  carry  us  safely 
through  to  final  success. 


Goffe  the  Regicide. — DWIGHT. 

IN  the  course  of  Philip's  war,  which  involved  almost  all 
the  Indian  tribes  in  New  England,  and  among  others  those 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Hadley,  the  inhabitants  thought 
it  proper  to  observe  the  first  of  September,  1675,  as  a  day 
of  fasting  and  prayer.  While  they  were  in  the  church, 
and  employed  in  their  worship,  they  were  surprised  by  a 
band  of  savages.  The  people  instantly  betook  themselves 
10  their  arms, — which,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
times,  they  had  carried  with  them  to  the  church, — and, 
rushing  out  of  the  house,  attacked  their  invaders.  The 
panic,  under  which  they  began  the  conflict,  was,  however, 
so  great,  and  their  number  was  so  disproportioned  to  thai 
of  their  enemies,  that  they  fought  doubtfully  at  first,  and 
in  a  short  time  began  evidently  to  give  way.  At  this  mo 
ment  an  ancient  man,  with  hoary  locks,  of  a  most  venera 
ble  and  dignified  aspect,  and  in  a  dress  widely  differing 
from  that  of  the  inhabitants,  appeared  suddenly  at  their 
head,  and  with  a  firm  voice  and  an  example  of  undaunted 
resolution,  reanimated  their  spirits,  led  them  again  to  the 
conflict,  and  totally  routed  the  savages.  When  the  battle 
was  ended,  the  stranger  disappeared ;  and  no  person  knew 
whence  he  had  come,  or  whither  he  had  gone.  The  relief 
was  so  timely,  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  and  so  providen 
tial  ;  the  appearance  and  the  retreat  of  him  who  furnished 
it  were  so  unaccountable  ;  his  person  was  so  dignified  and 
commanding,  his  resolution  so  superior,  and  his  interference 
so  decisive,  that  the  inhabitants,  without  any  uncommon 
exercise  of  credulity,  readily  believed  him  to  be  an  angel, 
sent  by  Heaven  for  their  preservation.  Nor  was  this 
opinion  seriously  controverted,  until  it  was  discovered,  sev 
eral  years  afterward,  that  Goffe  and  Whalley  had  beea 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  391 

lodged  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Russell.  Then  it  was  known 
that  their  deliverer  was  Goffe ;  Whalley  having  become 
superannuated  some  time  before  the  event  took  place.* 


General   Washington  resigning  the    Command  of  the 
jinny. — RAMSAY. 

THE  hour  now  approached,  in  which  it  became  necessa 
ry  for  the  American  chief  to  take  leave  of  his  officers,  who 
had  been  endeared  to  him  by  a  long  series  of  common  suf 
ferings  and  dangers.  This  was  done  in  a  solemn  manner. 
The  officers  having  previously  assembled  for  the  purpose, 
General  Washington  joined  them,  and,  calling  for  a  glass 
of  wine,  thus  addressed  them : — "  With  a  heart  full  of 
love  and  gratitude,  I  now  take  leave  of  you.  I  most  de 
voutly  wish  that  your  latter  days  may  be  as  prosperous  and 
happy  as  your  former  ones  have  been  glorious  and  honour 
able."  Having  <?  -ank,  he  added, — "  I  cannot  come  to 
each  of  you  to  take  my  leave,  but  shall  be  obliged  to  you 
if  each  of  you  wi.l  come  and  take  me  by  the  hand." 
General  Knox,  being  next,  turned  to  him.  Incapable  of 
utterance,  Washington  grasped  his  hand,  and  embraced 
him.  The  officers  came  up  successively,  and  he  took  an 
affectionate  leave  of  each  of  them.  Not  a  word  was  ar 
ticulated  on  either  side.  A  majestic  silence  prevailed. 
The  tear  of  sensibility  glistened  in  every  eye.  The  ten 
derness  of  the  scene  exceeded  all  description.  When  the 
last  of  the  officers  had  taken  his  leave,  Washington  left 
the  room,  and  passed  through  the  corps  of  light  infantry  to 
the  place  of  embarkation.  The  officers  followed  in  a  sol 
emn,  mute  procession,  with  dejected  countenances.  On 
his  entering  the  barge  to  cross  the  North  River,  he  turned 
towards  the  companions  of  his  glory,  and,  by  waving  his 
hat,  bid  them  a  silent  adieu.  Some  of  them  answered  this 
last  signal  of  respect  and  affection  with  tears ;  and  all  of 

*  The  magic  pencil  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  wrought  up  this  roman 
tic  k.cident  into  a  most  eloquent  and  heaut'ful  description.    It  is  cpn- 
Uinr  1  in  Bridgenorth's  relation  of  his  adventures  in  America  to  Julian 
Pevejil,  in  one  of  the  volumes  of  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak."--ED 
34 


398  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

them  gazed  upon  the  barge,  which  conveyed  him  from 
their  sight,  till  they  could  no  longer  distinguish  in  it  the 
person  of  their  beloved  commander-in-chief. 

The  army  being  disbanded,  Washington  proceeded  to 
Annapolis,  then  the  seat  of  congress,  to  resign  his  commis 
sion.  On  his  way  thither,  he,  of  his  own  accord,  deliver 
ed  to  the  comptroller  of  accounts  in  Philadelphia  an  account 
of  the  expenditure  of  all  the  public  money  he  had  ever 
received.  This  was  in  his  own  hand-writing,  and  every  en 
try  was  made  in  a  very  particular  manner.  Vouchers  were 
produced  for  every  item,  except  for  secret  intelligence  and 
service,  which  amounted  to  no  more  than  1,982  pounds 
10  shillings  sterling.  The  whole,  which,  in  the  course 
of  eight  years  of  war,  had  passed  through  his  hands, 
amounted  only  to  14,479  pounds,  18  shillings  9  pence  ster 
ling.  Nothing  was  charged  or  retained  for  personal  ser 
vices  ;  and  actual  disbursements  had  been  managed  with 
such  economy  and  fidelity,  that  they  were  all  covered  by 
the  above  moderate  sum. 

After  accounting  for  all  his  expenditures  of  public  mon 
ey,  (secret  service  money,  for  obvious  reasons,  excepted,) 
with  all  the  exactness  which  established  forms  required 
from  the  inferior  officers  of  his  army,  he  hastened  to  resign 
into  the  hs^ds  of  the  fathers  of  his  country  the  powers* 
with  which  ..hey  had  invested  him.  This  was  done  in  a 
public  audience.  Congress  received  him  as  the  founder 
and  guardian  of  the  republic.  While  he  appeared  before 
them,  they  silently  retraced  the  scenes  of  danger  and  dis 
tress,  through  which  they  had  passed  together.  They  re 
called  to  mind  the  blessings  of  freedom  and  peace  pur 
chased  by  his  arm.  They  gazed  with  wonder  on  their 
fellow-citizen,  who  appeared  more  great  and  worthy  of 
esteem  in  resigning  his  power,  than  he  had  done  in  glorious 
ly  using  it.  Every  heart  was  big  with  emotion.  Tears 
of  admiration  and  gratitude  burst  from  every  eye.  The 
general  sympathy  was  felt  by  the  resigning  hero,  and  wet 
his  cheek  with  a  manly  tear.  After  a  decent  pause,  he 
addressed  Thomas  Mifflin,  the  president  of  congress,  in  the 
following  words  : 

"  The  great  events  on  which  my  resignation  depended 
having  at  length  taken  place,  I  have  now  the  honour  ot 


I 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  399 

offering  my  sincere  congratulations  to  congress,  and  of  pre 
senting  myself  before  them,  to  surrender  into  their  hands 
the  trust  committed  to  me,  and  to  claim  the  indulgence  of 
retiring  from  the  service  of  my  country. 

"  Happy  in  the  confirmation  of  our  independence  and 
sovereignty,  and  pleased  with  the  opportunity  afforded  the 
United  States  of  becoming  a  respectable  nation,  I  resign 
with  satisfaction  the  appointment  I  accepted  with  diffidence  ; 
a  diffidence  in  my  abilities  to  accomplish  so  arduous  a  task, 
which,  however,  was  superseded  by  a  confidence  in  the 
rectitude  of  our  cause,  the  support  of  the  supreme  power 
of  the  union,  and  the  patronage  of  Heaven. 

"  The  successful  termination  of  the  war  has  verified  the 
most  sanguine  expectations ;  and  my  gratitude  for  the  in 
terposition  of  Providence,  and  for  the  assistance  I  have  re 
ceived  from  my  countrymen,  increases  with  every  review 
of  the  momentous  contest. 

"  While  I  repeat  my  obligations  to  the  army  in  general, 
I  should  do  injustice  to  my  own  feelings  not  to  acknowledge 
in  this  place  the  peculiar  services  and  distinguished  merits 
of  the  persons,  who  have  been  attached  to  my  person  dur 
ing  the  war.  It  was  impossible  that  the  choice  of  confi 
dential  officers  to  compose  my  family  should  have  been 
more  fortunate.  Permit  me,  sir,  to  recommend,  in  partic 
ular,  those  who  have  continued  in  the  service  to  the  pres 
ent  moment,  as  worthy  of  the  favourable  notice  and  pat 
ronage  of  congress. 

"  I  consider  it  as  an  indispensable  duty  to  close  this  last 
solemn  act  of  my  official  life,  by  commending  the  interests 
of  our  dearest  country  to  the  protection  of  Almighty  God, 
and  those  who  have  the  superintendence  of  them  to  his 
holy  keeping. 

"  Having  now  finished  the  work  assigned  me,  I  retire 
from  the  great  theatre  of  action  ;  and,  bidding  an  affection 
ate  farewell  to  this  august  body,  under  whose  orders  I  have 
long  acted,  I  here  offer  my  commission,  and  take  my  leave 
of  all  the  employments  of  public  life." 

This  address  being  ended,  General  Washington  advanced 
and  delivered  his  commission  into  the  hands  of  the  president 
af  congress,  who  replied  as  follows  : 


400  COMMON-PLACE  3OOR  OF  PROSE. 

"  The  United  States,  in  congress  assembled,  receive, 
with  emotions  too  affecting  for  utterance,  the  solemn  resig 
nation  of  the  authorities  under  which  you  have  led  their 
troops  with  success  through  a  perilous  and  doubtful  war. 

"  Called  upon  by  your  country  to  defend  its  invaded 
rights,  you  accepted  the  sacred  charge  before  it  had  formed 
alliances,  and  whilst  it  was  without  friends  or  a  govern 
ment  to  support  you. 

"  You  have  conducted  the  great  military  contest  with 
wisdom  and  fortitude,  invariably  regarding  the  rights  of 
the  civil  power  through  all  disasters  and  changes.  You 
have,  by  the  love  and  confidence  of  your  fellow-citizens, 
enabled  them  to  display  their  martial  genius,  and  transmit 
their  fame  to  posterity  :  you  have  persevered,  till  these 
United  States,  aided  by  a  magnanimous  king  and  nation, 
have  been  enabled,  under  a  just  Providence,  to  close  the 
war  in  safety,  freedom  and  independence ;  on  which 
happy  event  we  sincerely  join  you  in  congratulations. 

"  Having  defended  the  standard  of  liberty  in  this  new 
world,  having  taught  a  lesson  useful  to  those  who  inflict, 
and  to  those  who  feel  oppression,  you  retire  from  the  great 
theatre  of  action  with  the  blessings  of  your  fellow-citizens  ; 
but  the  glory  of  your  virtues  will  not  terminate  with  your 
military  command  ;  it  will  continue  to  animate  remotest 
ages.  We  feel  with  you  our  obligations  to  the  army  in 
general,  and  will  particularly  charge  ourselves  with  the 
interest  of  those  confidential  officers,  who  have  attended 
your  person  to  this  affecting  moment. 

"  We  join  you  in  commending  the  interests  of  our  dear 
est  country  to  the  protection  of  Almighty  God,  beseeching 
him  to  dispose  the  hearts  and  minds  of  its  citizens  to  im- 
irove  the  opportunity  afforded  them  of  becoming  a  happy 
and  respectable  nation  ;  and  for  you  we  address  to  him  our 
earnest  prayers,  that  a  life  so  beloved  may  be  fostered  with 
all  his  care ;  that  your  days  may  be  happy  as  they  have 
been  illustrious,  and  that  he  will  finally  give  you  that  re 
ward,  which  this  world  cannot  give." 

The  military  services  of  General  Washington,  which 
ended  with  this  interesting  day,  were  as  great  as  ever  were 
rendered  by  any  man  to  any  nation.  They  were  at  the 
same  time  disinterested.  How  dear  would  not  a  mercena- 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  401 

ry  man  have  sold  such  toils,  such  dangers,  and,  above  all, 
such  successes  !  What  schemes  of  grandeur  and  of  power 
would  not  an  ambitious  man  have  built  upon  the  affections 
of  the  people  and  of  the  army !  The  gratitude  of  Amer 
ica  was  so  lively,  that  any  thing  asked  by  her  resigning 
chief  would  have  been  readily  granted.  He  asked  noth 
ing  for  himself,  his  family  or  relations;  but  indhectly  so 
licited  favours  for  the  confidential  officers,  who  were  at 
tached  to  his  person.  These  were  young  gentlemen,  with 
out  fortune,  who  had  served  him  in  the  capacity  of  aids- 
de-camp.  To  have  omitted  the  opportunity  which  then 
offered  of  recommending  them  to  their  country's  notice, 
would  have  argued  a  degree  of  insensibility  jn  the  breast 
of  their  friend.  The  only  privilege  distinguishing  him 
from  other  private  citizens,  which  the  retiring  Washington 
did  or  would  receive  from  his  grateful  country,  was  a 
right  of  sending  and  receiving  letters  free  of  postage. 

The  American  chief,  having  by  his  own  voluntary  act 
become  one  of  the  people,  hastened,  with  ineffable  delight, 
to  his  seat  at  Mount  Vernon,  on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac. 
There,  in  a  short  time,  the  most  successful  general  in  the 
world  became  the  most  diligent  farmer  in  Virginia. 

To  pass  suddenly  from  the  toils  of  the  first  commission 
in  the  United  States  to  the  care  of  a  farm,  to  exchange 
the  instruments  of  war  for  the  implements  of  husbandry, 
and  to  become  at  once  the  patron  and  example  of  ingenious 
agriculture,  would,  to  most  men,  have  been  a  difficult  task. 
To  the  elevated  mind  of  Washington  it  was  natural  and 
delightful. 

His  own  sensations,  after  retiring  from  public  business, 
arc  thus  expressed  in  his  letters  : — "  I  am  just  beginning 
to  experience  the  ease  and  freedom  from  public  cares, 
vhich,  however  desirable,  it  takes  some  time  to  realize  ;  for, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  it  was 
not  until  Lately  I  could  get  the  better  of  my  usual  custom 
of  ruminating,  as  soon  as  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  on  the 
business  of  the  ensuing  day  ;  and  of  my  surprise  on  find 
ing,  after  revolving  many  things  in  my  mind,  that  I  was 
no  longer  a  public  man,  or  had  any  thing  to  do  with  public 
transactions.  I  feel  as  I  conceive  a  wearied  traveller  must 
S4 


402  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

do,  who,  after  treading  many  a  painful  step  with  a  heavy 
burden  on  his  shoulders,  is  eased  of  the  latter,  having 
reached  the  haven  to  which  all  the  former  were  directed^ 
and,  from  his  housetop  is  looking  back,  and  tracing  with 
an  eager  eye  the  meanders  by  which  he  escaped  the  quick 
sands  and  mires,  which  lay  in  his  way,  and  into  which 
none  but  the  all-powerful  Guide  and  Dispenser  of  human 
events  could  have  prevented  his  falling." 

"  I  have  become  a  private  citizen  on  the  banks  of  the 
Potomac  ;  and,  under  the  shadow  of  my  own  vine  and  my 
own  fig-tree,  free  from  the  bustle  of  a  camp,  and  the  busy 
scenes  of  public  life,  I  am  solacing  myself  with  those  tran 
quil  enjoyments,  of  which  the  soldier,  who  is  ever  in  pur 
suit  of  fame, — the  statesman,  whose  watchful  days  and 
sleepless  nights  are  spent  In  devising  schemes  to  promote 
the  welfare  of  his  own,  perhaps  the  ruin  of  other  countries, 
as  if  this  globe  was  insufficient  for  us  all, — and  the  cour 
tier,  who  is  always  watching  the  countenance  of  his  prince, 
in  the  hope  of  catching  a  gracious  smile, — can  have  very 
little  conception.  I  have  not  only  retired  from  all  public 
employments,  but  am  retiring  within  myself,  and  shall  be 
able  to  view  the  solitary  walk,  and  tread  the  paths  of  pri 
vate  life,  with  heartfelt  satisfaction.  Envious  of  none,  I 
am  determined  to  be  pleased  with  all ;  and  this,  my  dear 
friend,  being  the  order  of  my  march,  I  will  move  gently 
down  the  stream  of  life,  until  I  sleep  with  my  fathers." 

Mr.  MARSHALL  thus  finishes  this  beautiful  picture. — ED. 

For  several  months  after  reaching  Mount  Vernon,  al 
most  every  day  brought  him  the  addresses  of  an  affection 
ate  and  grateful  people.  The  glow  of  expression,  in  which 
the  high  sense  universally  entertained  of  his  services  was 
conveyed,  manifested  a  warmth  of  feeling  seldom  equal 
led  in  the  history  of  man.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  this 
unexampled  tribute  of  applause  made  no  impression  on  the 
unassuming  modesty  of  his  character  and  deportment.  The 
same  firmness  of  mind,  the  same  steady  and  well-tempered 
judgment,  which  had  guided  him  through  the  most  peril 
ous  seasons  of  the  war,  still  regulated  his  conduct ;  and 
the  enthusiastic  applauses  of  an  admiring  nation  appeared 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  403 

only  to  cherish  sentiments  of  gratitude,  and  to  give  great 
er  activity  to  the  desire  still  further  to  contribute  to  the 
prosperity  of  his  country. 


Alexander  Wilson. — NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW. 

HE  was  a  Scotchman  by  birth.  The  first  years  of  his  res 
idence  in  this  country  were  devoted  to  school-keeping  in 
Pennsylvania.  An  early  acquaintance  with  the  venerable 
Bartraru  kindled  within  him  a  love  of  science ;  and  after 
he  commenced  his  ornithological  inquiries,  he  pursued  them 
for  the  remaining  short  period  of  his  life  with  an  enthusi 
asm,  perseverance,  and  self-devotion,  which  have  rarely 
been  equalled.  He  died  in  Philadelphia,  August  23d, 
1813,  at  the  age  of  forty-seven.  His  American  Ornithol 
ogy,  executed  under  every  possible  disadvantage,  and  with 
encouragement  so  slender,  as  hardly  to  keep  him  from  the 
heavy  pressure  of  want,  is  a  monument  to  his  name  that 
will  never  decay.  The  old  world  and  the  new  will  regard 
it  with  equal  admiration.  "  We  may  add  without  hesita 
tion,"  says  Mr.  Bonaparte,  "  that  such  a  work  as  he  has 
published  in  a  new  country,  is  still  a  desideratum  in  Eu 
rope."  To  accomplish  such  a  work,  with  all  the  facilities 
which  the  arts  and  knowledge  of  Europe  afford,  would  con 
fer  no  common  distinction.  But  when  it  is  considered  that 
Wilson  taught  himself,  almost  unassisted,  the  arts  of  draw 
ing  and  engraving ;  that  he  made  his  way  in  the  science 
with  very  little  aid  from  books  or  teachers  ;  that  he  entered 
a  path  in  which  he  could  find  no  companions,  none  to 
stimulate  his  ardour  by  a  similarity  of  pursuits  or  commu 
nion  of  feeling,  none  to  remove  his  doubts,  guide  his  in 
quiries,  or  to  be  deeply  interested  in  his  success ;  when  these 
things  are  considered,  the  labours  of  Wilson  must  claim  a 
praise j  which  is  due  to  a  few  only  of  the  solitary  efforts  of 
talent  and  enterprise. 

In  the  strictest  s'  nse  of  the  terms,  Wilson  was  a  man 
of  genius  ;  his  perceptions  were  quick,  l.is  impressiona 
vivid  ;  a  bright  glow  of  feeling  breathes  through  his  com 
positions.  In  the  professed  walks  of  poetry,  his  attempt* 


404  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

were  not  often  fortunate  ;  but  his  prose  writings  partake 
of  the  genuine  poetic  spirit.  A  lively  fancy,  exuberance 
of  thought,  and  minute  observation  of  the  natural  world, 
are  strongly  indicated  in  whatever  has  flowed  from  his  pen. 
He  travelled  for  the  double  purpose  of  procuring  subscrip 
tions  to  his  book,  and  searching  the  forest  for  birds  ;  and 
some  of  his  graphic  descriptions  of  the  scenery  of  nature,  ' 
and  the  habits  of  the  winged  tribes,  are  inimitable.  Some 
times  he  walked  ;  at  others  descended  rivers  in  a  canoe  ; 
again  he  was  on  horseback,  in  a  stage-coach  or  a  farmer's 
wagon,  as  the  great  ends  of  his  wanderings  could  be  most 
easily  attained.  The  cold  repulses  of  the  many  from 
whom  he  solicited  subscriptions  he  bore  with  equanimity  ; 
undaunted  by  disappointment,  unsubdued  by  toil  and  pri 
vation.  The  acquisition  of  a  new  bird,  or  of  new  facts 
illustrating  the  habitudes  of  those  already  known,  was  a 
fountain  of  joy  in  his  gloomiest  moments ;  it  poured  the  wa 
ters  of  oblivion  over  the  past,  and  gave  him  new  energy 
in  his  onward  course.  The  following  are  his  descriptions 
of  the  mocking  bird  and  bald  eagle  • 

"  This  distinguished  bird,  [the  eagle,]  as  he  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  his  tribe  in  this  part  of  the  world,  and  the 
adopted  emblem  of  our  country,  is  entitled  to  particular  no 
tice.  He  has  been  long  known  to  naturalists,  being  com 
mon  to  both  continents,  and  occasionally  met  with-  from  a 
very  high  northern  latitude  to  the  borders  of  the  torrid 
zone,  but  chiefly  in  the  vicinity  of  the  sea,  and  along  the 
shores  and  cliffs  of  our  lakes  and  large  rivers.  Formed  by 
nature  for  braving  the  severest  cold  ;  feeding  equally  upon 
the  produce  of  the  sea  and  of  the  land  ;  possessing  powers 
of  flight  capable  of  outstripping  even  the  tempests  them 
selves  ;  unawed  by  any  thing  but  man  ;  and,  from  the 
ethereal  heights  to  which  he  soars,  looking  abroad  at  one 
glance  on  an  immeasurable  expanse  of  forests,  fields,  lakes 
and  ocean,  deep  below  him  ;  he  appears  indifferent  to  the 
little  localities  of  change  of  seasons,  as  in  a  few  minutes 
he  can  pass  from  summer  to  winter,  from  the  lower  to  the 
higher  regions  of  the  atmosphere,  the  abode  of  eternal  cold, 
and  thence  descend  at  will  to  the  torrid  or  the  arctic  re 
gions  of  the  earth.  He  is  therefore  found  at  all  seasons 
in  the  countries  which  he  inhabits,  but  prefers  such  place* 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  405 

as  have  been  mentioned  above,  from  the  great  partiality 
he  has  for  fish. 

"  In  procuring  these  he  displays,  in  a  very  singular  man 
ner,  the  genius  and  energy  of  his  character,  which  is 
fierce,  contemplative,  daring  and  tyrannical ;  attributes 
not  exerted  but  on  particular  occasions,  but,  when  put 
forth,  overwhelming  all  opposition.  Elevated  upon  a  high, 
•'ead  limb  of  some  gigantic  tree,  that  commands  a  wide 
view  of  the  neighbouring  shore  and  ocean,  he  seems  calmly 
to  contemplate  the  motions  of  the  various  feathered  tribes 
that  pursue  their  busy  avocations  below, — the  snow-white 
gulls,  slowly  winnowing  the  air, — the  busy  tringas,  cours 
ing  along  the  sands, — trains  of  ducks,  streaming  over  the 
surface, — silent,  and  watchful  cranes,  intent  and  wading, — 
clamorous  crows,  and  all  the  winged  multitudes  that  sub 
sist  by  the  bounty  of  this  vast  liquid  magazine  of  nature. 
High  over  all  these  hovers  one,  whose  action  instantly 
arrests  his  attention.  By  his  wide  curvature  of  wing,  anC 
sudden  suspension  in  air,  he  knows  him  to  be  the  fish- 
hawk  settling  over  some  devoted  victim  of  the  deep.  Hia 
eye  kindles  at  the  sight,  and,  balancing  himself  with  half- 
opened  wings  on  the  branch,  he  watches  the  result.  Down, 
rapid  as  an  arrow  from  heaven,  descends  the  distant  object 
of  his  attention,  the  roar  of  its  wings  reaching  the  ear  as 
it  disappears  in  the  deep,  making  the  surges  foam  around. 
At  this  moment  the  looks  of  the  eagle  are  all  ardour ;  and, 
levelling  his  neck  for  flight,  he  sees  the  fish-hawk  emerge, 
struggling  with  his  prey,  and  mounting  into  the  air  with 
screams  of  exultation.  These  are  the  signal  for  our  hero, 
who,  launching  into  the  air,  instantly  gives  chase,  soon 
gains  on  the  fish-hawk,  each  exerts  his  utmost  to  mount 
above  the  other,  displaying  in  these  rencounters  the  most 
elegant  and  sublime  aerial  evolutions.  The  unincum- 
bered  eagle  rapidly  advances,  and  is  just  on  the  point  of 
read  ing  his  opponent,  when,  with  a  sudden  scream,  prob 
ably  of  despair  and  honest  execration,  the  latter  drops  his 
fish  ;  the  eagle,  poising  himself  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  take 
a  more  certain  aim,  descends  like  a  whirlwind,  snatches  it 
in  his  grasp  ere  it  reaches  the  water,  and  bears  his  ill- 
gotten  booty  silently  away  to  the  woods." 


406  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

"  The  plumage  of  the  mocking-bird,  though  none  of  the 
homeliest,  has  nothing  gaudy  or  brilliant  in  it ;  and,  had 
he  nothing  else  to  recommend  him,  would  scarcely  entitle 
him  to  notice  ;  but  his  figure  is  well  proportioned,  and  even 
handsome.  The  ease,  elegance  and  rapidity  of  his  move 
ments,  the  animation  of  his  eye,  and  the  intelligence  he 
displays  in  listening,  and  laying  up  lessons  from  almost 
every  species  of  the  feathered  creation  within  his  hearing, 
are  really  surprising,  and  mark  the  peculiarity  of  his  genius; 
To  these  qualities  we  may  add  that  of  a  voice  full,  strong 
and  musical,  and  capable  of  almost  every  modulation,  from 
the  clear,  mellow  tones  of  the  wood-thrush,  to  the  savage 
screams  of  the  bald  eagle.  In  measure  and  accent,  he 
faithfully  follows  his  originals.  In  force  and  sweetness  of 
expression,  he  greatly  improves  upon  them.  In  his  native 
groves,  mounted  upon  the  top  of  a  tall  bush,  or  half-grown 
tree,  in  the  dawn  of  dewy  morning,  while  the  woods  are 
already  vocal  with  a  multitude  of  warblers,  his  admirable 
song  rises  pre-eminent  over  every  competitor.  The  ear 
can  listen  to  his  music  alone,  to  which  that  of  all  the  others 
seems  a  mere  accompaniment.  Neither  is  this  strain  alto 
gether  imitative.  His  own  native  notes,  which  are  easily 
distinguishable  by  such  as  are  acquainted  with  those  of  our 
various  song  birds,  are  bold  and  full,  and  varied  seemingly 
beyond  all  limits.  They  consist  of  short  expressions  of  two, 
three,  or,  at  the  most,  five  or  six  syllables,  generally  in 
terspersed  with  imitations,  and  all  of  them  uttered  with 
great  emphasis  and  rapidity,  and  continued  with  undimin- 
ished  ardour  for  half  an  hour  or  an  hour  at  a  time  ;  his 
expanded  wings  and  tail,  glistening  with  white,  and  the 
buoyant  gayety  of  his  action,  arresting  the  eye  as  his  song 
most  irresistibly  does  the  ear.  He  sweeps  round  with 
enthusiastic  ecstasy.  He  mounts  and  descends  as  his  song 
swells  or  dies  away  ;  arid,  as  my  friend  Mr.  Bartram  has 
beautifully  expressed  it,  '  he  bounds  aloft  with  the  celerity 
of  an  arrow,  as  if  to  recover  or  recall  his  very  soul,  which 
expired  in  the  last  elevated  strain.'  While  thus  exerting 
himself,  a  bystander,  destitute  of  sight,  would  suppose  that 
the  whole  feathered  tribes  had  assembled  together  on  a 
trial  of  skill,  each  striving  to  produce  his  utmost  effect ; — • 
BO  perfect  are  his  imitations.  He  many  tines  deceives  the 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  407 

sportsman,  and  sends  him  in  search  of  birds  that  perhaps 
are  not  within  miles  of  him,  but  whose  notes  he  exactly 
imitates.  Even  birds  themselves  are  frequently  imposed 
on  by  this  admirable  mimic,  and  are  decoyed  by  the  fan 
cied  calls  of  their  mates  ;  or  dive  with  precipitation  into  the 
depths  of  thickets,  at  the  scream  of  what  they  suppose  to 
be  the  sparrow-hawk." 


Female  Education  and  Learning. — STORY. 

IF  Christianity  may  be  said  to  have  given  a  permanent 
elevation  to  woman,  as  an  intellectual  and  moral  being,  it 
is  as  true  that  the  present  age,  above  all  others,  has  given 
play  to  her  genius,  and  taught  us  to  reverence  its  influ 
ence.  It  was  the  fashion  of  other  times  to  treat  the  liter 
ary  acquirements  of  the  sex  as  starched  pedantry,  or  vain 
pretension ;  to  stigmatize  them  as  inconsistent  with  those 
domestic  affections  and  virtues,  which  constitute  the  charm 
of  society.  We  had  abundant  homilies  read  upon  their 
amiable  weaknesses  and  sentimental  delicacy,  upon  their 
timid  gentleness  and  submissive  dependence  ;  as  if  to  taste 
the  fruit  of  knowledge  were  a  deadly  sin,  and  ignorance 
were  the  sole  guardian  of  innocence.  Their  whole  lives 
were  "  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought,"  and 
concealment  of  intellectual  power  was  often  resorted  to, 
to  escape  the  dangerous  imputation  of  masculine  strength. 
In  the  higher  walks  of  life,  the  satirist  was  not  without 
colour  for  the  suggestion,  that  it  was 

"  A  youth  of  folly,  an  old  age  of  cards  ;" 

and  that,  elsewhere,  "  most  women  had  no  character  at  all," 
beyond  that  of  purity  and  devotion  to  their  families.  Ad 
mirable  as  are  these  qualities,  it  seemed  an  abuse  of  the 
gifts  of  Providence  to  deny  to  mothers  the  power  of  in 
structing  their  children,  to  wives  the  privilege  of  sharing 
the  intellectual  pursuits  of  their  husbands,  to  sisters  and 
daughters  the  delight  of  ministering  knowledge  in  the 
fireside  circle,  to  youth  and  beauty  the  charm  of  refined 
sense,  to  age  and  infirmity  the  consolation  of  studies,  whicb 


408  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

elevate  the  soul,  and  gladden' the  listless  hours  of  despon 
dency. 

These  things  have,  in  a  great  measure,  passed  away. 
The  prejudices,  which  dishonoured  the  sex,  have  yielded 
to  the  influence  of  truth.  By  slow  but  sure  advances, 
education  has  extended  itself  through  all  ranks  of  female 
society.  There  is  no  longer  any  dread,  lest  the  culture 
of  science  should  foster  that  masculine  boldness  or  restless 
independence,  which  alarms  by  its  sallies,  or  wounds  by  its 
inconsistencies.  We  have  seen  that  here,  as  every  where 
else,  knowledge  is  favourable  to  human  virtue  and  human 
happiness  ;  that  the  refinement  of  literature  adds  lustre  to 
the  devotion  of  piety  ;  that  true  learning,  like  true  taste, 
is  modest  and  unostentatious  ;  that  grace  of  manners  re 
ceives  a  higher  polish  from  the  discipline  of  the  schools ; 
that  cultivated  genius  sheds  a  cheering  light  over  domestic 
duties,  and  its  very  sparkles,  like  those  of  the  diamond, 
attest  at  once  its  power  and  its  purity.  There  is  not  a  rank 
of  female  society,  however  high,  which  does  not  now  pay- 
homage  to  literature,  or  that  would  not  blush  even  at  the 
suspicion  of  that  ignorance,  which,  a  half  century  ago, 
was  neither  uncommon  nor  discreditable.  There  is  not  a 
parent,  whose  pride  may  not  glow  at  the  thought,  that  his 
daughter's  happiness  is  in  a  great  measure  within  her  own 
command,  whether  she  keeps  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of 
life,  or  visits  the  busy  walks  of  fashion. 

A  new  path  is  thus  opened  for  female  exertion,  to  alle 
viate  the  pressure  of  misfortune,  without  any  supposed 
sacrifice  of  dignity  or  modesty.  Man  no  longer  aspires  to 
an  exclusive  dominion  in  authorship.  He  has  rivals  or  al 
lies  in  almost  every  department  of  knowledge  ;  and  they 
are  to  be  found  among  those,  whose  elegance  of  manners 
and  blamelessness  of  life  command  his  respect,  as  much  as 
their  talents  excite  his  admiration.  Who  is  there  that  does 
not  contemplate  with  enthusiasm  the  precious  fragments  of 
Elizabeth  Smith,  the  venerable  learning  of  Elizabeth  Car 
ter,  the  elevated  piety  of  Hannah  More,  the  persuasive 
sense  of  Mrs.  Barbauld,  the  elegant  memoirs  of  her  ac 
complished  niece,  the  bewitching  fiction  of  Madame  D'Ar- 
blay,  the  vivid,  picturesque  and  terrific  imagery  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  the  glowing  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  the  match- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE.  409 

less  wit,  the  inexhaustible  conversations,  the  fine  charac 
ter  painting,  the  practical  instructions  of  Miss  Edgeworth., 
the  great  Known,  standing  in  her  own  department  by  tha 
side  of  the  great  Unknown  ! 


Poetical  Character  of  Gray. — BUCKMINSTER. 

IT -has  been  the  fortune  of  Gray,  as  well  as  of  other  po 
ets  of  the  first  order,  to  suffer  by  the  ignorance  and  the 
envy  of  contemporaries,  and  at  last  to  obtain  from  posteri 
ty,  amid  the  clamours  of  discordant  criticism,  only  a  divided 
suffrage.  The  coldness  of  his  first  reception  by  the  public 
has,  however,  been  more  than  compensated  by  the  warmth 
of  his  real  admirers  ;  for  he  is  one  of  those  few  poets,  who 
at  every  new  reading  recompenses  you  double  for  every 
encomium,  by  disclosing  some  new  charm  of  sentiment  or 
of  diction.  The  many,  who  have  ignorantly  or  reluctantly 
praised,  may  learn,  as  they  study  him,  that  they  have  noth 
ing  to  retract ;  and  those,  who  have  delighted  to  depreciate 
his  excellence,  will  understand,  if  they  ever  learn  to  ad 
mire  him,  that  their  former  insensibility  was  pardonable, 
though  they  may  be  tempted  to  wish,  that  it  had  never 
been  known.  Gray  was  not  destitute  of  those  anticipations 
of  future  fame,  which  God  has  sometimes  granted  to 
neglected  genius,  as  he  gives  the  testimony  of  conscience 
to  suffering  virtue.  His  letters  to  Mason  and  Hurd  show 
how  pleasantly  he  could  talk  of  those,  who  could  neither 
admire  nor  understand  his  odes.  He  knew,  that  it  was 
not  of  much  consequence  to  be  neglected  by  that  public, 
which  suffered  Thomson's  Winter  to  remain  for  years  un 
noticed,  and  which  had  to  be  told  by  Addison,  at  the  expi 
ration  of  half  a  century,  of  the  merit  of  the  Paradise  Lost 
St:U  less  could  his  fame  be  endangered  by  Colman's  ex- 
qu.sitely  humorous  parody  of  his  odes,  especially  since  it 
is  now  known,  that  Colman  has  confessed  to  Warton,  that 
he  repented  of  the  attempt ;  and,  at  the  present  day,  I 
know  not  whether  it  would  add  any  thing  to  the  final  rep 
utation  of  a  lyric  poet,  to  have  been  praised  by  that  great 
man,  who  could  pronounce  Dryden's  ode  on  Mrs.  Killigrew 
35 


410  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

the  finest  in  our  language,  and  who  could  find  nothing   in 
Collins'  but  "  clusters  of  consonants." 


If  Gray  has  any  claim  to  the  character  of  a  poet,  he 
must  hold  an  elevated  rank  or  none.  If  he  is  not  excellent, 
he  is  supremely  ridiculous ;  if  he  has  not  the  living  spirit 
of  verse,  he  is  only  besotted  and  bewildered  with  the  fumes 
of  a  vulgar  and  stupifying  draught,  which  he  found  in 
some  stagnant  pool  at  the  foot  of  Parnassus,  and  which  he 
mistook  for  the  Castalian  spring.  But  if  Pindar  and  Hor 
ace  were  poets,  so  too  was  Gray.  The  finest  notes  of  their 
lyre  were  elicited  by  the  breath  of  inspiration  breathing 
on  the  strings ;  and  he,  who  cannot  enter  into  the  spirit 
which  animates  the  first  Pythian  of  Pindar,  or  the  "  Quern 
virum  aut  heroa"  of  Horace,  must  be  content  to  be  shown 
beauties  in  Gray,  which  it  is  not  yet  granted  him  to  feel, 
or  spontaneously  to  discern.  I  am  willing  to  rest  the  merit 
of  Gray  on  Horace's  definition  of  a  poet, — 

"  Ingenium  cui  sit,  cui  mens  divinior,  atque  os, 
Magna  sonaturum,  sed  iioininis  hujus  houorem." 


We  shall  be  more  ready  to  admit,  that  the  sole  perfec 
tion  of  poetry  consists  not  merely  in  faithful  description, 
fine  sense,  or  pointed  sentiment  in  polished  verse,  if  we 
attend  to  some  curious  remarks  of  Burke,  in  the  last  part 
of  his  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful.  He  has  there 
sufficiently  shown  that  many  fine  passages,  which  produce 
the  most  powerful  effect  on  a  sensible  mind,  present  no 
ideas  to  the  fancy,  which  can  be  strictly  marked  or  im- 
bodied.  The  most  thrilling  touches  of  sublimity  and  beau 
ty  are  consistent  with  great  indistinctness  of  images  and 
conceptions.  Indeed,  it  is  hardly  to  be  believed,  before 
making  the  experiment,  that  we  should  be  so  much  affect 
ed  as  we  are,  by  passages  which  convey  no  definite  picture 
to  the  mind.  To  those  who  are  insensible  to  Gray's  curi 
ous  junction  of  phrases  and  hardy  personifications,  we  rec 
ommend  the  study  of  this  chapter  of  Burke.  There  they 
will  see,  that  the  effect  of  poetical  expression  depends  mor« 
upon  particular  and  indefinable  associations,  than  upon  tht 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSB.  411 

precise  images  which  the  words  convey.  Thus,  of  Gray's 
poetry,  the  effect,  lik«  that  of  Milton's  finest  passages  in 
the  Allegro  and  Penseroso,  is  to  raise  a  glow,  which  it  is 
not  easy  to  describe  ;  but  the  beauty  of  a  passage,  when 
we  attempt  to  analyze  it,  seems  to  consist  in  a  certain  ex 
quisite  felicity  of  terms,  fraught  with  pictures  which  it  is 
impossible  to  transfer  with  perfect  exactness  to  the  canvass. 


If  the  perfection  of  poetry  consists  in  imparting  ever/ 
Impression  to  the  mind  in  the  most  exquisite  degree,  and 
the  ode  has,  by  the  consent  of  critics  in  all  ages,  been  in 
dulged  in  irregularities  which  are  not  pardonable  in  other 
kinds  of  verse,  because  it  is  supposed  to  follow  the  rapid 
and  unrestrained  passage  of  images  through  the  mind,  it  is 
surely  enough  to  satisfy  even  Aristotle  himself,  that  in 
Gray's  odes  the  subject  is  never  entirely  deserted,  and  that 
a  continued  succession  of  sublime  or  beautiful  impressions 
is  conveyed  to  the  mind,  in  language  the  most  grateful  to 
the  ear  which  jur  English  tongue  can  furnish.  For  my 
own  part,  I  tike  as  much  delight  in  contemplating  the  rich 
hues  that  succeed  one  another  without  order  in  a  deep  cloud 
in  the  west,  which  has  no  prescribed  shape,  as  in  view 
ing  the  seven  colours  of  the  rainbow  disposed  in  a  form 
exactly  semicircular.  The  truth  is,  that,  after  having  read 
any  poem  once,  we  recur  to  it  afterwards  not  as  a  whole, 
but  for  the  beauty  of  particular  passages. 

It  would  be  easy  to  reply  in  order  to  the  invidious  and 
contemptible  criticisms  of  Johnson  on  particular  passages 
in  these  odes,  and  to  show  their  captious  futility.  This, 
however,  has  been  frequently  and  successfully  attempted. 
Those  faults,  which  must  at  last  be  admitted  in  Gray's 
poetry,  detract  little  from  his  merit.  That  only  two 
flat  lines  should  be  found  in  a  whole  volume  of  poems,  is 
an  honour  which  even  Virgil  might  be  permitted  to  envy. 
He  vrho  can  endure  to  dwell  upon  these  petty  blemishes 
in  the  lull  stream  of  Gray's  enthusiasm,  must  be  as  insen 
sible  to  the  pomp  and  grandeur  of  poetic  phrase,  as  that 
traveller  would  be  to  the  sentiment  of  the  sublime  in  na 
ture,  who  could  sit  coolly  by  the  cataract  of  Niagara,  spec 


412  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ulating  upon  the  chips  and  straws  that  were  carried  over 
the  fall. 

That  his  digressions  are  sometimes  abrupt,  is  a  character 
which  he  shares  with  his  Grecian  master ;  and  that  an 
obscurity  sometimes  broods  over  his  subliinest  images,  is  not 
to  be  denied.  But  violence  of  transition,  if  it  is  a  fault  in 
this  kind  of  poetry,  must  be  excused  by  those  laws  of  lyrical 
composition,  which  we  have  hitherto  been  content  to  re 
ceive,  like  the  laws  of  the  drama  and  the  epic,  implicitly 
from  the  ancients  ;  and  the  obscurity  of  Gray  is  never  in 
vincible.  It  is  not  the  fog  of  dulness  ;  but,  like  the  dark 
ness  which  the  eye  at  first  perceives  in  excessive  bright 
ness,  it  vanishes  the  longer  it  is  contemplated,  and  when 
the  eye  is  accommodated  to  the  flood  of  light. 


The  distinguishing  excellence  of  Gray's  poetry  is,  I 
think,  to  be  found  in  the  astonishing  force  and  beauty  of 
his  epithets.  In  other  poets,  if  you  are  endeavouring  to 
recollect  a  passage,  and  find  that  a  single  word  still  eludes 
you,  it  is  not  impossible  to  supply  it  occasionally  with 
eomething  equivalent  or  superior.  But  let  any  man  at 
tempt  this  in  Gray's  poetry,  and  he  will  find  that  he  doe." 
not  even  approach  the  beauty  of  the  original.  Like  the 
single  window  in  Aladdin's  palace,  which  the  grand  vizier 
undertook  to  finish  with  diamonds  equal  to  the  rest,  but 
found,  after  a  long  trial,  that  he  was  not  rich  enough  to 
furnish  the  jewels,  nor  ingenious  enough  to  dispose  them, 
so  there  are  lines  in  Gray,  which  critics  and  poets  might 
labour  forever  to  supply,  and  without  success.  This  won 
derful  richness  of  expression  has  perhaps  injured  his  fame. 
For  sometimes  a  single  word,  by  giving  rise  to  a  suc 
cession  of  images,  which  preoccupy  the  mind,  obscures 
the  lustre  of  the  succeeding  epithets.  The  mind  is  fa 
tigued  and  retarded  by  the  crowd  of  beauties,  soliciting 
the  attention  at  the  same  moment  to  different  graces  of 
thought  and  expression.  Overpowered  by  the  blaze  of 
embellishment,  we  cry  out  with  Horace,  "  Parce,  Liber ! 
parce  !  gravi  metuende  thyrso."  Hence  Gray,  more  than 
any  other  lyric  poet,  will  endure  to  be  read  in  detached 
portions,  and  again  and  again. 


COMMON- PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.        413 

Another  characteristic  of  Gray,  which,  while  it  detract* 
something  from  his  originality,  increases  the  charm  of  hia 
verse,  is  the  classical  raciness  of  his  diction.  Milton  is  the 
only  English  poet  who  rivals  him  in  the  remote  learning 
of  his  allusions,  and  this  has  greatly  restrained  the  number 
of  their  admirers.  *  *  *  *  The  meaning  of  the  word 
rage,  in  this  line  of  the  Elegy,  a  poem  which  all  profess 
to  relish  and  admire, 

"  Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage," 

cannot  be  understood  without  reverting  to  a  common  use 
of  the  word  opyn  among  the  Greeks,  to  which  Gray  refers, 
signifying  a  strong  bent  of  genius.  The  Progress  of  Poesy 
is  peculiarly  full  of  allusions  to  the  Heathen  Mythology 
The  sublime  imitation  of  Pindar,  in  the  description  of  the 
bird  of  Jupiter,  in  the  second  stanza,  is  almost  worth  the 
learning  of  Greek  to  understand. 

The  last  perfection  of  verse,  in  which  Gray  is  unrivalled, 
is  the  power  of  his  numbers.  These  have  an  irresistible 
charm  even  with  those,  who  understand  not  his  meaning, 
and  without  this  musical  enchantment,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  he  would  have  surmounted  the  ignorance  and 
insensibility,  with  which  he  was  at  first  received.  His 
rhythm  and  cadences  afford  a  perpetual  pleasure,  which, 
'n  the  full  contemplation  of  his  other  charms,  we  some 
times  forget  to  acknowledge.  There  is  nothing,  surely, in 
the  whole  compass  of  English  versification,  to  be  compared 
in  musical  structure  with  the  third  stanza  of  his  ode  on 
the  Progress  of  Poesy.  The  change  of  movement,  in  the 
BIX  last  lines,  is  inexpressibly  fine.  The  effect  of  these 
varied  cadences  and  measures  is,  to  my  ear  at  least, 
full  as  great  as  that  of  an  adagio  in  music  immediately 
following  a  rondo ;  and  I  admire  in  silent  rapture  the 
genius  of  that  man,  who  could  so  mould  our  untractable 
language  as  to  produce  all  the  effect  of  the  great  masters 
of  musical  composition.  If  the  ancient  lyrics  contained 
many  specimens  of  numerous  verse  equal  to  this,  we  need 
no  longer  wonder  that  they  were  always  accompanied  with 
music.  Poetry  never  approached  nearer  to  painting,  than 
ferse  does  in  this  stanza  to  the  most  ravishing  melody. 
35* 


414  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 


Republics  of  Greea  and  Italy. — HAMILTON. 

IT  is  impossible  to  read  the  history  of  the  petty  republics 
of  Greece  and  Italy,  without  feeling  sensations  of  horror 
and  disgust  at  the  distractions  with  which  they  were  con 
tinually  agitated,  and  at  the  rapid  succession  of  revolutions, 
by  which  they  were  kept  perpetually  vibrating  between 
the  extremes  of  tyranny  and  anarchy.  If  they  exhibit  oc 
casional  calms,  these  only  serve  as  short-lived  contrasts  to 
the  furious  storms  that  are  to  succeed.  If  now  and  then  in 
tervals  of  felicity  open  themselves  to  view,  we  behold  them 
with  a  mixture  of  regret,  arising  from  the  reflection,  that 
the  pleasing  scenes  before  us  are  soon  to  be  overwhelmed 
by  the  tempestuous  waves  of  sedition  and  party  rage.  If 
momentary  rays  of  glory  break  forth  from  the  gloom,  while 
they  dazzle  as  with  a  transient  and  fleeting  brilliancy,  they 
at  the  same  time  admonish  us  to  lament  that  the  vices  of 
government  should  pervert  the  direction  and  tarnish  the 
lustre  of  those  bright  talents  and  exalted  endowments,  for 
which  the  favoured  soils  that  produced  them  have  been  so 
justly  celebrated. 

From  the  disorders  that  disfigure  the  annals  of  those 
republics,  the  advocates  of  despotism  have  drawn  argu 
ments,  not  only  against  the  forms  of  republican  government, 
but  against  the  very  principles  of  civil  liberty.  They  have 
decried  all  free  governments  as  inconsistent  with  the  order 
of  society,  and  have  indulged  themselves  in  malicious  ex 
ultation  over  its  friends  and  partisans.  Happily  for  man 
kind,  stupendous  fabrics,  reared  on  the  basis  of  liberty, 
which  have  flourished  for  ages,  have,  in  a  few  instances, 
refuted  their  gloomy  sophisms.  And  I  trust  America  will 
be  the  broad  and  solid  foundation  of  other  edifices,  not  less 
magnificent,  which  will  be  equally  permanent  monuments 
of  their  error. 

But  it  is  not  to  be  denied,  that  the  portraits  they  have 
.sketched  of  republican  government  were  but  too  just  copies 
of  the  originals  from  which  they  were  taken.  If  it  had 
been  found  impracticable  to  have  devised  models  of  a  more 
perfect  structure,  the  enlightened  friends  of  liberty  would 
have  been  obliged  to  abandon  the  cause  of  that  species  of 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OP    PROSE.  415 

government  as  indefensible.  The  science  of  politics,  how 
ever,  like  most  other  sciences,  has  received  great  improve 
ment.  The  efficacy  of  various  principles  is  now  well  un 
derstood,  which  were  either  not  known  at  all,  or  imper 
fectly  known  to  the  ancients.  The  regular  distribution  of 
power  into  distinct  departments — the  introduction  of  legis 
lative  balances  and  checks — the  institution  of  courts  com 
posed  of  judges  holding  their  offices  during  good  behaviour 
—the  representation  of  the  people  in  the  legislature,  by 
deputies  of  their  own  election — these  are  either  wholly 
new  discoveries,  or  have  made  their  principal  progress 
towards  perfection  in  modern  times.  They  are  means,  and 
powerful  means,  by  which  the  excellences  of  republican 
government  may  be  retained,  and  its  imperfections  lessened 
or  avoided. 


Professional  Character  of  William  Pinkney. — 
HENRY  WHEATON. 

IN  tracing  the  principal  outlines  of  his  public  character, 
his  professional  talents  and  attainments  must  necessarily 
occupy  the  most  prominent  place.  To  extraordinary  nat 
ural  endowments,  Mr.  Pinkney  added  deep  and  various 
knowledge  in  his  profession.  A  long  course  of  study  and 
practice  had  familiarized  his  mind  with  the  science  of  ju 
risprudence.  His  intellectual  powers  were  most  conspicuous 
in  the  investigations  connected  with  that  science.  He  had 
felt  himself  originally  attracted  to  it  by  invincible  inclina 
tion  ;  it  was  his  principal  pursuit  in  life  ;  and  he  never  en 
tirely  lost  sight  of  it  in  his  occasional  deviations  into  other 
pursuits  and  employments.  The  lures  of  political  ambition 
and  the  blandishments  of  polished  society,  or  perhaps  a 
vague  desire  of  universal  accomplishment  and  general 
applause,  might  sometimes  tempt  him  to  stray,  for  a  sea 
son,  from  the  path  which  the  original  bent  of  his  genius 
had  assigned  him.  But  he  always  returned  with  fresh 
ardour  and  new  delight  to  his  appropriate  vocation.  He 
was  devoted  to  the  law  with  a  true  enthusiasm  ;  and  his 
other  studies  and.  pursuits,  so  far  as  they  had  a  serious  <»>>• 


416  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

ject,  were  valued  chiefly  as  they  might  minister  to  {hit 
idol  of  his  affections. 

It  was  in  his  profession  that  he  found  himself  at  home ; 
in  this  consisted  his  pride  and  his  pleasure ;  lor,  as  he  said, 
' '  the  bar  is  not  the  place  to  acquire  or  preserve  a  false  and 
fraudulent  reputation  for  talents."  And  on  that  theatre 
he  felt  conscious  of  possessing  those  powers  which  would 
command  success. 

This  entire  devotion  to  his  professional  purs  lits  was  con 
tinued  with  unremitting  perseverance  to  the  end  of  his 
career.  If  the  celebrated  Denys  Talon  could  say  of  the 
still  more  celebrated  D'Aguesseau,  on  hearing  his  first 
speech  at  the  bar,  "  that  he  would  willingly  END  as  that 
young  man  COMMENCED,"  every  youthful  aspirant  to 
forensic  fame  among  us  might  wish  to  begin  his  profession 
al  exertions  with  the  same  love  of  labour,  and  the  same  ar 
dent  desire  of  distinction,  which  marked  the  efforts  of 
William  Pinkney  throughout  his  life. 

What  might  not  be  expected  from  professional  emulation, 
directed  by  such  an  ardent  spirit  and  such  singleness  of 
purpose,  even  if  sustained  by  far  inferior  abilities  !  But 
no  abilities,  however  splendid,  can  command  success  at  the 
bar,  without  intense  labour  and  persevering  application. 
It  was  this  which  secured  to  Mr.  Pinkney  '  ie  most  ex 
tensive  and  lucrative  practice  ever  acquired  Ly  any  Amer 
ican  lawyer,  and  which  raised  him  to  such  an  enviable 
height  of  professional  eminence.  For  many  years  he  was 
the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  bar  in  his  native  state  ; 
and,  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  the  principal  pe 
riod  of  his  attendance  in  the  supreme  court  of  the  nation, 
he  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  having  been  rarely  equalled, 
and  perhaps  never  excelled,  in  the  power  of  reasoning  upon 
legal  subjects.  This  was  the  faculty  which  nost  remark 
ably  distinguished  him.  His  mind  was  acu,e  and  subtile, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  comprehensive  in  its  grasp,  rapid 
and  clear  in  its  conceptions,  and  singularly  felicitous  in 
the  exposition  of  the  truths  it  was  employed  in  investi 
gating. 

Of  the  extent  and  solidity  of  his  legal  attainments  it  would 
be  difficult  to  speak  in  adequate  terms,  without  the  appear 
ance  of  exaggeration.  He  was  profoundly  versed  in  the 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PUOSE.  417 

ancient  learning  of  the  common  law ;  its  technical  pecu 
liarities  and  feudal  origin.  Its  subtile  distinctioi.s  and  arti 
ficial  logic  were  familiar  to  his  early  studies,  and  enabled 
him  to  expound,  with  admirable  force  and  perspicuity,  the 
rules  of  real  property.  He  was  familiar  with  every  branch 
of  commercial  law ;  and  superadded,  at  a  later  period  of 
his  life,  to  his  other  legal  attainments,  an  extensive  acquaint 
ance  with  the  principles  of  international  law,  and  the 
practice  of  the  prize  courts.  In  his  legal  studies  he  pre 
ferred  the  original  text-writers  and  reporters,  (e  fontibu.i 
hauriri,)  to  all  those  abridgments,  digests,  and  elementary 
treatises,  which  lend  so  many  convenient  helps  and  facilities 
to  the  modern  lawyer,  but  which  he  considered  as  adapted 
to  form  sciolists,  and  to  encourage  indolence  and  superficial 
habits  of  investigation.  His  favourite  law  book  was  the 
Coke  Littleton,  which  he  had  read  many  times.  Its  prin 
cipal  texts  he  had  treasured  up  in  his  memory,  and  his 
arguments  at  the  bar  abounded  with  perpetual  recurrences 
to  the  principles  and  analogies  drawn  from  this  rich  mine 
of  common  law  learning. 


External  Appearance  of  England. — A.  H.  EVERETT 

WHATEVER  may  be  the  extent  of  the  distress  in  Eng 
land,  or  the  difficulty  of  finding  any  remedies  for  it,  which 
shall  be  at  once  practicable  and  sufficient,  it  is  certain  that 
the  symptoms  of  decline  have  not  yet  displayed  themselves 
on  the  surface  ;  and  no  country  in  Europe,  at  the  present 
day,  probably  none  that  ever  flourished  at  any  preceding 
period  of  ancient  o  of  modern  times,  ever  exhibited  so 
strongly  the  outward  marks  of  general  industry,  wealth 
and  prosperity.  The  misery  that  exists,  whatever  it  may 
be,  retires  from  public  view ;  and  the  traveller  sees  no 
traces  of  it  except  in  the  beggars, — which  are  not  more  nu 
merous  than  they  are  on  the  continent, — in  the  courts  of 
justice,  and  in  the  newspapers.  On  the  contrary,  the  im 
pressions  he  receives  from  the  objects  that  meet  his  view 
are  almost  uniformly  agreeable.  He  is  pleased  with  the 
([rent  attention  paid  to  his  personal  accommodation  as  a 


418  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

traveller,  with  the  excellent  roads,  and  the  convenience* 
of  the  public  carriages  and  inns.  The  country  every 
where  exhibits  the  appearance  of  high  cultivation,  or  else 
of  wild  and  picturesque  beauty ;  and  even  the  unimproved 
lands  are  disposed  with  taste  and  skill,  so  as  to  embellish 
the  landscape  very  highly,  if  they  do  not  contribute,  as  they 
might,  to  the  substantial  comfort  of  the  people.  From 
every  eminence  extensive  parks  and  grounds,  spreading  far 
and  wide  over  hill  and  vale,  interspersed  with  dark  woods, 
and  variegated  with  bright  waters,  unroll  themselves  be 
fore  the  eye,  like  enchanted  gardens.  And  while  the 
elegant  constructions  of  the  modern  proprietors  fill  the 
mind  with  images  of  ease  and  luxury,  the  mouldering  ru 
ins  that  remain  of  former  ages,  of  the  castles  and  churches 
of  their  feudal  ancestors,  increase  the  interest  of  the  pic 
ture  by  contrast,  and  associate  with  it  poetical  and  affecting 
recollections  of  other  times  and  manners.  Every  village 
seems  to  be  the  chosen  residence  of  Indus-try,  and  her  hand 
maids,  Neatness  and  Comfort ;  and,  in  the  various  parts  of 
the  island,  her  operations  present  themselves  under  the 
most  amusing  and  agreeable  variety  of  forms.  Some 
times  her  votaries  are  mounting  to  the  skies  in  manufacto 
ries  of  innumerable  stories  in  height,  and  sometimes  diving 
in  mines  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  or  dragging  up 
drowned  treasures  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  At  one 
time  the  ornamented  grounds  of  i  wealthy  proprietor  seem 
to  realize  the  fabled  Elysium ;  and  again,  as  you  pass  in 
the  evening  through  some  village  engaged  in  the  iron 
manufacture,  where  a  thousand  forges  are  feeding  at  once 
their  dark-red  fires,  and  clouding  the  air  with  their  volumes 
of  smoke,  you  might  think  yourself,  for  a  moment,  a  little 
too  near  some  drearier  residence. 

The  aspect  of  the  cities  is  as  various  as  that  of  the  coun 
try.  Oxford,  in  the  silent,  solemn  grandeur  of  its  numer 
ous  collegiate  palaces,  with  their  massy  stone  walls,  and 
vast  interior  quadrangles,  seems  like  the  deserted  capital 
of  some  departed  race  of  giants.  This  is  the  splendid  sep 
ulchre,  where  Science,  like  the  Roman  Tarpeia,  lies  buried 
under  the  weight  of  gold  that  rewarded  her  ancient  ser 
vices,  and  where  copious  libations  of  the  richest  Port  and 
Madeira  are  daily  poured  out  to  her  memory.  At  Liver- 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.      419 

pool,  on  the  contrary,  all  is  bustle,  brick  and  business.  Every 
thing  breathes  of  modern  times,  every  body  is  occupied 
with  the  concerns  of  the  present  moment,  excepting  one 
elegant  scholar,  who  unites  a  singular  resemblance  to  the 
Roman  face  and  dignified  person  of  our  Washington,  with 
the  magnificent  spirit  and  intellectual  accomplishments  of 
his  own  Italian  hero. 

At  every  change  in  the  landscape,  you  fall  upon  monu 
ments  of  some  new  race  of  men,  among  the  number  that 
have  in  their  turn  inhabited  these  islands.  The  mysterious 
monument  of  Stonehenge,  standing  remote  and  alone  upon  a 
bare  and  boundless  heath,  as  much  unconnected  with  the 
events  of  past  ages  as  it  is  with  the  uses  of  the  present,  car 
ries  you  back,  beyond  all  historical  records,  into  the  obscurity 
of  a  wholly  unknown  period.  Perhaps  the  Druids  raised  it ; 
but  by  what  machinery  could  these  half  barbarians  have 
wrought  and  moved  such  immense  masses  of  rock  ?  By 
what  fatality  is  it,  that,  in  every  part  of  the  globe,  the  most 
durable  impressions  that  have  been  made  upon  its  surface 
were  the  work  of  races  now  entirely  extinct  ?  Who  were 
the  builders  of  the  pyramids,  and  the  massy  monuments 
of  Egypt  and  India  ?  Who  constructed  the  Cyclopean 
walls  of  Italy  and  Greece,  or  elevated  the  innumerable 
and  inexplicable  mounds,  which  are  seen  in  every  part  of 
Europe,  Asia,  and  America;  or  the  ancient  forts  upon  the 
Ohio,  on  whose  ruins  the  third  growth  of  trees  is  now  more 
than  four  hundred  years  old,?  All  these  constructions  have 
existed  through  the  whole  period  within  the  memory  of 
man,  and  will  continue,  when  all  the  architecture  of  the 
present  generation,  with  its  high  civilization  and  improved 
machinery,  shall  have  crumbled  into  dust.  Stonehenge 
will  remain  unchanged,  when  the  banks  of  the  Thames 
shall  be  as  bare  as  Salisbury  heath.  But  the  Romans  had 
something  of  the  spirit  of  these  primitive  builders,  and 
they  left  every  where  distinct  traces  of  their  passage. 
Hilf  the  castles  in  Great  Britain  were  founded,  according 
to  tradition,  by  Julius  Caesar;  and  abundant  vestiges  re 
main,  throughout  the  island,  of  their  walls,  and  forts,  and 
military  roads.  Most  of  their  castles  have,  however,  been 
built  upon  and  augmented  at  a  later  period,  and  belong, 
with  more  propriety,  to  the  brilliant  period  of  Gothic  archi 


420  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF   PROSE. 

tecture.  Thus  the  keep  of  Warwick  dates  from  the  time 
of  Caesar,  while  the  castle  itself,  with  its  lofty  battlements, 
extensive  walls,  and  large  enclosures,  bears  witness  to  the 
age,  when  every  Norman  chief  was  a  military  despot  with 
in  his  own  barony.  To  this  period  appertains  the  principal 
part  of  the  magnificent  Gothic  monuments,  castles,  cathe 
drals,  abbeys,  priories  and  churches,  in  various  stages  of 
preservation  and  of  ruin  ;  some,  like  Warwick  and  Aluwick 
castles,  like  Salisbury  cathedral  and  Westminster  abbey,  in 
al'  their  original  perfection  ;  others,  like  Kenilworth  and 
Canterbury,  little  more  than  a  rude  mass  of  earth  and  rub 
bish  ;  and  others  again  in  the  intermediate  stages  of  decaj, 
borrowing  a  sort  of  charm  from  their  very  ruin,  and  put 
ting  on  their  dark-green  robes  of  ivy  to  conceal  the  ravages 
of  time,  as  if  the  luxuriant  bounty  of  nature  were  purposely 
throwing  a  veil  over  the  frailty  and  feebleness  of  art.  What 
a  beautiful  and  brilliant  vision  was  this  Gothic  architecture, 
shining  out  as  it  did  from  the  deepest  darkness  of  feudal 
barbarism  !  And  here  again,  by  what  fatality  has  it  hap 
pened  that  the  moderns,  with  all  their  civilization  and  im 
proved  taste,  have  been  as  utterly  unsuccessful  in  rivalling 
the  divine  simplicity  of  the  Greeks,  as  the  rude  grandeur 
of  the  Cyclopeans  and  ancient  Egyptians  ?  Since  the  revi 
val  of  art  in  Europe,  the  builders  have  confined  themselves 
wholly  to  a  graceless  and  unsuccessful  imitation  of  ancient 
models.  Strange,  that  the  only  new  architectural  concep 
tion  of  any  value,  subsequent  to  the  time  of  Phidias,  should 
have  been  struck  out  at  the  worst  period  of  society  that 
has  since  occurred !  Sometimes  the  moderns,  in  their  la 
borious  poverty  ol  invention,  heap  up  small  materials  in 
large  masses,  and  think  that  St.  Peter's  or  St.  Paul's  will 
be  as  much  more  sublime  than  the  Parthenon,  as  they  are 
larger  ;  at  others,  they  condescend  to  a  servile  imitation  of 
the  wild  and  native  graces  of  the  Gothic;  as  the  Chinese, 
in  their  stupid  ignorance  of  perspective,  can  still  copy,  line 
by  line,  and  point  by  point,  an  European  picture.  But  the 
Norman  castles  and  churches,  with  all  their  richness  and 
sublimity,  fell  with  the  power  of  their  owners  at  the  rise 
of  the  commonwealth.  The  Independents  were  levellers 
of  substance  as  well  as  form  ;  and  the  material  traces  they 
left  of  their  existence  are  the  ruins  of  what  their  predece*- 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  421 

sors  had  built.  They,  too,  had  an  architecture,  but  it  was 
not  in  wood  nor  stone.  It  was  enough  for  them  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  the  nobler  fabric  of  civil  liberty.  The  effects 
of  the  only  change  in  society  that  has  since  occurred,  are 
seen  in  the  cultivated  fields,  the  populous  and  thriving 
cities,  the  busy  ports,  and  the  general  prosperous  appear 
ance  of  the  country. 

All  the  various  aspects,  that  I  have  mentioned,  present 
themselves  in  turns ;  and,  having  gradually  succeeded  to 
each  other,  their  contrasts  are  never  too  rude,  and  they 
harmonize  together  so  as  to  make  up  a  most  agreeable  pic 
ture.  Sometimes,  as  at  Edinburgh,  the  creations  of  ancient 
and  of  modern  days,  the  old  and  new  towns,  have  placed 
themselves  very  amicably  side  by  side,  like  Fitz  James 
and  Rhoderic  Dhu  reposing  on  the  same  plaid  ;  while  at 
London,  the  general  emporium  and  central  point  of  the 
whole  system,  every  variety  of  origin  and  social  existence 
is  defaced,  and  all  are  coagulatt  *  in  one  uniform  though 
heterogeneous  mass. 


Features  of  American  Scenery. — TUDOR. 

THE  numerous  waterfalls,  the  enchanting  beauty  of 
Lake  George  and  its  pellucid  flood,  of  Lake  Champlain  and 
the  lesser  lakes,  afford  many  objects  of  the  most  picturesque 
character  ;  while  the  inland  seas,  from  Superior  to  Ontario, 
and  that  astounding  cataract,  whose  roar  would  hardly  be 
increased  by  the  united  murmurs  of  all  the  cascades  of 
Europe,  are  calculated  to  inspire  vast  and  sublime  concep 
tions.  The  effects,  too,  of  our  climate,  composed  of  a  Si 
berian  winter  and  an  Italian  summer,  furnish  new  and 
peculiar  objects  for  description.  The  circumstances  of  re 
mote  regions  are  here  blended,  and  strikingly  opposite  ap 
pearances  witnessed  ii  the  same  spot  at  different  seasons 
of  the  year.  In  our  winters,  we  have  the  sun  at  the  same 
altitude  as  in  Italy,  shining  on  an  unlimited  surface  of  snow, 
which  can  only  be  found  in  the  higher  latitudes  of  Europe, 
where  the  sun  in  the  winter  rises  little  above  the  horizon. 
The  dazzling  brilliance  of  a  winter's  day  and  a  moonlight 
86 


£22  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE. 

night,  in  an  atmosphere  astonishingly  clear  and  frosty,  whea 
the  utmost  splendour  of  the  sky  is  reflected  from  a  surface 
of  spotless  white,  attended  with  the  most  excessive  cold,  is 
peculiar  to  the  northern  part  of  the  United  States.  What, 
too,  can  surpass  the  celestial  purity  and  transparency  of  the 
atmosphere  in  a  fine  autumnal  day,  when  our  vision  and 
our  thought  seem  carried  to  the  third  heaven  ;  the  gorgeous 
magnificence  of  the  close,  when  the  sun  sinks  from  our 
view,  surrounded  with  various  masses  of  clouds  fringed 
with  gold  and  purple,  and  reflecting,  in  evanescent  tints, 
all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow ! 


Literary  Character  of  Jefferson  and  Adams  — 
WEBSTER. 

THE  last  public  labour  of  Mr.  Jefferson  naturally  sug 
gests  the  expression  of  the  high  praise  which  is  due,  both 
to  him  and  to  Mr.  Adams,  for  their  uniform  and  zealous 
attachment  to  learning,  and  to  the  cause  of  general  know1 
edge.  Of  the  advantages  of  learning,  indeed,  and  of  li,- 
erary  accomplishments,  their  own  characters  were  striking 
recommendations  and  illustrations.  They  were  scholars, 
ripe  and  good  scholars  ;  widely  acquainted  with  ancient  as 
well  as  modern  literature,  and  not  altogether  uninstructed 
in  the  deeper  sciences.  Their  acquirements  doubtless  were 
different,  and  so  were  the  particular  objects  of  their  liter 
ary  pursuits  ;  as  their  tastes  and  characters  in  these  re 
spects  differed  like  those  of  other  men.  Being  also  men 
of  busy  lives,  with  great  objects  requiring  action  constant 
ly  before  them,  their  attainments  in  letters  did  not  become 
showy  or  obtrusive.  Yet  I  would  hazard  the  opinion, 
that,  if  we  could  now  ascertain  all  the  causes  which  gave 
them  eminence  and  distinction  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
men  with  whom  they  acted,  we  should  find  not  among  the 
least  their  early  acquisition  in  literature,  the  resources 
which  it  furnished,  the  promptitude  and  facility  which  it 
communicated,  and  the  w  de  field  it  opened  for  analogy  and 
illustration;  giving  them  thus,  on  every  subject,  a  larger 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  423 

view  and  a  broader  range,  as  well  for  discussion  as  for  the 
government  of  their  own  conduct. 

Literature  sometimes,  and  pretensions  to  it  much  oftener, 
disgusts,  by  appearing  to  hang  loosely  on  the  character,  like 
something  foreign  or  extraneous ;  not  a  part,  but  an  ill-ad 
justed  appendage ;  or  by  seeming  to  overload  and  weigh 
it  down  by  its  unsightly  bulk,  like  the  productions  of  bad 
taste  in  architecture,  when  there  is  massy  and  cumbrous 
ornament,  without  strength  or  solidity  of  column.  This 
has  exposed  learning,  and  especially  classical  learning,  to 
reproach.  Men  have  seen  that  it  might  exist  without 
mental  superiority,  without  vigour,  without  good  taste,  and 
without  utility.  But,  in  such  cases,  classical  learning  has 
only  not  inspired  natural  talent ;  or,  at  most,  it  has  but  made 
original  feebleness  of  intellect  and  natural  bluntness  of 
perception  somewhat  more  conspicuous.  The  question,  af 
ter  all,  if  it  be  a  question,  is,  whether  literature,  ancient 
as  well  as  modern,  does  not  assist  a  good  understanding, 
improve  natural  good  taste,  add  polished  armour  to  native 
strength,  and  render  its  possessor  not  only  more  capable 
of  deriving  private  happiness  from  contemplation  and  re 
fection,  but  more  accomplished  also  for  action  in  the  affairs 
of  life,  and  especially  for  public  action.  Those,  whose 
memories  we  now  honour,  were  learned  men;  but  their 
learning  was  kept  in  its  proper  place,  and  made  subservi 
ent  to  the  uses  and  objects  of  life.  They  were  scholars, 
not  common  nor  superficial  ;  but  their  scholarship  was  so 
in  keeping  with  their  character,  so  blended  and  inwrought, 
that  careless  observers  or  bad  judges,  not  seeing  an  osten 
tatious  display  of  it,  might  infer  that  it  did  not  exist ;  for 
getting,  or  not  knowing,  that  classical  learning,  in  men 
who  act  in  conspicuous  public  stations,  perform  duties  which 
exercise  the  faculty  of  writing,  or  address  popular,  judicial, 
or  deliberative  bodies,  is  often  felt  where  it  is  little  seen, 
and  sometimes  felt  more  effectually  because  it  la  not  «eet 
at  all. 


124  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE. 


Eloquence  and  Humour  of  Patrick  Henry. — WIBT. 

HOOK  was  a  Scotchman,  a  man  of  wealth,  and  suspected 
of  being  unfriendly  to  the  American  cause.  During  the 
distresses  of  the  American  army,  consequent  on  the  joint 
invasion  of  Cornwallis  and  Phillips  in  1781,  a  Mr.  Vena- 
ble,  an  army  commissary,  had  taken  two  of  Hook's  steers 
for  the  use  of  the  troops.  The  act  had  not  been  strictly 
legal ;  and,  on  the  establishment  of  peace,  Hook,  on  the 
advice  of  Mr.  Cowan,  a  gentleman  of  some  distinction  ip 
the  law,  thought  proper  to  bring  an  action  of  trespav* 
against  Mr.  Venable,  in  the  district  court  of  New  London. 
Mr.  Henry  appeared  for  the  defendant,  and  is  said  to  have 
disported  himself  in  this  cause  to  the  infinite  enjoyment  of 
his  hearers,  the  unfortunate  Hook  always  excepted.  After 
Mr.  Henry  became  animated  in  the  cause,  says  a  corre 
spondent,  he  appeared  to  have  complete  control  over  the 
passions  of  his  audience  :  at  one  time  he  excited  their  in 
dignation  against  Hook  :  vengeance  was  visible  in  every 
countenance  :  again,  when  he  chose  to  relax,  and  ridicule 
him,  the  whole  audience  was  in  a  roar  of  laughter.  He 
painted  the  distresses  of  the  American  army,  exposed,  al 
most  naked,  to  the  rigours  of  a  winter's  sky,  and  marking 
the  frozen  ground  over  which  they  trod  with  the  blood  of 
their  unshod  feet.  Where  was  the  man,  he  said,  who  had 
an  American  heart  in  his  bosom,  who  would  not  have  thrown 
open  his  fields,  his  barns,  his  cellars,  the  doors  of  his  house, 
the  portals  of  his  breast,  to  have  received  with  open  arms 
the  meanest  soldier  in  that  little  band  of  famished  patriots  ? 
Where  is  the  man  ?  There  he  stands — but  whether  the 
heart  of  an  American  beats  in  his  bosom,  you,  gentlemen, 
ore  to  judge.  He  then  carried  the  jury  by  the  powers  of 
his  imagination  to  the  plains  around  York,  the  surrender 
of  which  had  followed  shortly  after  the  act  complained  of: 
he  depicted  the  surrender  in  the  most  glowing  and  noble 
colours  of  his  eloquence — the  audience  saw  before  their 
eyes  the  humiliation  and  dejection  of  the  British  as  they 
marched  out  of  their  trenches — they  saw  tho  triumph 
which  lighted  up  every  patriot  face,  and  heard  the  shouts 
»f  victory,  and  the  cry  of  '  Washington  and  liberty,'  as  •« 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE.  425 

rung  and  echoed  through  the  American  ranks,  and 
was  reverberated  from  the  hills  and  shores  of  the  neigh- 
bouring  river — "but,  hark!  what  notes  of  discord  are 
these,  which  disturb  the  general  joy,  and  silence  the  accla 
mation  of  victory — they  are  the  notes  of  John  Hook, 
hoarsely  bawling  through  the  American  camp,  'Beef! 
beef!  beef!'  " 

The  whole  audience  were  convulsed :  a  particular  inci 
dent  will  give  a  better  idea  of  the  effect  than  any  general 
description.  The  clerk  of  the  court,  unable  to  command 
himself,  and  unwilling  to  commit  any  breach  of  decorum 
in  his  place,  rushed  out  of  the  court-house,  and  threw  him 
self  on  the  grass,  in  the  most  violent  paroxysm  of  laughter, 
where  he  was  rolling,  when  Hook,  with  very  different  feel 
ings,  came  out  for  relief  into  the  yard  also.  "Jemmy 
Steptoe,"  said  he  to  the  clerk,  "what  the  devil  ails  ye, 
mon?"  Mr.  Steptoe  was  only  able  to  say  that  he  could 
not  help  it.  "Never  mind  ye,"  said  Hook;  "wait  till 
Billy  Cowan  gets  up;  he'll  show  him  the  la' !"  Mr.  Cow 
an,  however,  was  so  completely  overwhelmed  by  the  tor 
rent  which  boie  upon  his  client,  that,  when  he  rose  to  re 
ply  to  Mr.  Henry,  he  was  scarcely  able  to  make  an  intelli 
gible  or  audible  remark.  The  cause  was  decided  almost  by 
acclamation.  The  jury  retired  for  form's  sake, and  instant 
ly  returned  with  a  veidict  for  the  defendant.  Nor  did  the 
effect  of  Mr.  Henry's  speech  stop  here.  The  people  were 
BO  highly  excited  by  the  tory  audacity  of  such  a  suit,  that 
Hook  began  to  hear  around  him  a  cry  more  terrible  than 
that  of  beef ,  it  was  the  cry  of  tar  and  feathers;  from  the 
application  of  which  it  is  said,  that  nothing  saved  him  but 
•  precipitate  flight  and  the  speed  of  his  horse. 


Valley  of  the  Commanches. — FRANCIS  BERRIAN. 

I  AROSE  early  in  the  morning  to  make  the  circuit  of  thia 
lovely  vale.  At  the  extremity  of  the  village,  the  torrent 
whose  sources  were  in  the  mountains,  poured  down,  from 
a  prodigious  elevation,  a  white  and  perpendicular  cascade, 
which  seemed  a  sheet  suspended  in  the  air.  It  falls  into 
36  » 


426  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

A  circular  basin,  paved  with  blue  limestone,  of  some  rod* 
circuit.  The  dash  near  at  hand  has  a  startling  effect  upon 
the  ear.  But  at  a  little  distance,  it  is  just  the  murmur  to 
inspire  repose,  and  it  spreads  a  delicious  coolness  all  around 
the  place.  From  the  basin  the  stream  seems  to  partake  of 
the  repose  of  the  valley  ;  for  it  broadens  into  a  transparent 
and  quiet  water,  whose  banks  are  fringed  with  pawpaws, 
persimon,  laurel,  and  catalpa  shrubs  and  trees,  interlaced 
with  vines,  under  which  the  green  carpet  is  rendered  gay 
with  flowers  of  every  scent  and  hue.  The  soil  is  black, 
tender,  and  exuberantly  fertile.  The  coolness  of  the  vale 
and  the  shade,  together  with  the  irrigation  of  the  stream, 
cover  the  whole  valley  with  a  vivid  verdure.  The  beauti 
ful  red-bird,  with  its  crimson- tufted  crest,  and  the  nightin 
gale  sparrow,  pouring  from  a  body  scarcely  larger  than  an 
acorn  a  continued  stream  of  sound,  a  prolonged,  plaintive 
and  sweetly-modulated  harmony,  that  might  be  heard  at  the 
distance  of  half  a  mile,  had  commenced  their  morning 
voluntary.  The  mocking  bird,  the  buffoon  of  songsters, 
Was  parodying  the  songs  of  all  the  rest.  Its  short  and  jerking 
notes  at  times  imitated  bursts  of  laughter.  Sometimes,  laying 
aside  its  habitual  levity,  it  shows  that  it  knows  the  notes 
of  seriousness,  and  trills  a  sweetly-melancholy  strain 
Above  the  summits  of  these  frowning  mountains,  that  mor 
tal  foot  had  never  yet  trodden,  soared  the  mountain  eagle, 
drinking  the  sunbeam  in  the  pride  of  his  native  indepen 
dence.  Other  birds  of  prey,  apparently  poised  on  their 
wings,  swam  slowly  round  in  easy  curves,  and  seemed  to 
look  with  delight  upon  the  green  spot  embosomed  in  the 
mountains.  They  sallied  back  and  forwards,  as  though  they 
could  not  tire  of  the  view.  The  sun,  which  had  burnished 
all  the  tops  of  the  mountains  with  gold,  and  here  and  there 
glistened  on  banks  of  snow,  would  not  shine  inio  the  val 
ley,  until  he  had  almost  gained  his  meridian  height.  The 
natives,  fleet  as  the  deer  when  on  expeditions  abroad,  and  at 
home  lazy  and  yawning,  were  just  issuing  from  their  cabins, 
and  stretching  their  limbs  supinely  in  the  cool  of  the  morn 
ing.  The  smoke  of  their  cabin  fires  had  begun  to  undulate 
and  whiten  in  horizontal  pillars  athwart  the  valley  It 
was  a  charming  assemblage  of  strong  contrasts,  rocky  and 
inaccessible  mountains,  the  deep  and  incessant  roar  of  the 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  427 

stream,  a  valley  that  seemed  to  sleep  between  these  im 
pregnable  ramparts  of  nature,  a  little  region  of  landscape 
surrounded  by  black  and  ragged  cliffs,  on  every  side  dotted 
thick  with  brilliant  and  beautiful  vegetation,  and  fragrant 
with  hundreds  of  acacias,  and  catalpas  in  full  flower,  a  spot 
sequestered  like  a  lonely  isle  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean ; 
in  the  midst  of  it  a  simple,  busy,  and  undescribed  people, 
whose  forefathers  had  been  born  and  had  died  here  for  un 
counted  generations ;  a  people  who  could  record  wars, 
loves,  and  all  the  changes  of  fortune,  if  they  had  had  their 
historisn.  Such  was  the  valley  of  the  Commanches. 

There  are  places  where  I  am  at  once  at  home  with  Na 
ture,  and  where  she  seems  to  take  me  to  her  bosom  with 
all  the  fondness  of  a  mother.  I  forget  at  once  that  I  am 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land ;  and  this  was  one  of  those 
places.  I  cannot  describe  the  soothing  sensations  I  felt.  I 
listened  to  the  mingled  sounds  of  a  hundred  birds,  the  bark 
ing  of  the  dogs  on  the  acclivities  of  the  hills,  the  cheerful 
sounds  of  the  domestic  animals,  and  the  busy  hum  of  the 
savages.  The  morning  was  fresh  and  balmy.  The  sublime 
nature  above  me,  and  the  quiet  and  happy  animated  nature 
on  my  own  level,  seemed  to  be  occupied  in  morning  orisons 
to  the  Creator.  I,  too,  felt  the  glad  thrill  of  devotion  come 
over  my  mind.  "  These  are  thy  works,  Parent  of  good." 
Here,  thought  I,  in  this  delightful  vale,  with  a  few  friends, 
is  the  place  where  one  would  choose  to  dream  away  his 
short  day  and  night,  forgetting  and  forgotten. 

"  Here  would  I  live,  unnoticed  and  unknown, 
Here,  unlamented,  would  I  die  ; 
Steil  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie." 


Pleasures  of  the  Man  of  a  refined  Imagination.' — 
IDLE  MAN. 

WHEN  such  a  one  turns  away  from  men,  and  is  left  alone 
in  silent  communion  with  nature  and  his  own  thoughts, 
and  there  are  no  bounds  to  the  movements  of  the  feelings, 
and  nothing  on  which  he  would  shut  his  eyes,  but  God'l 


428  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE. 

own  hand  has  made  all  before  him  as  it  is,  he  feels  hit 
spirit  opening  upon  a  new  existence — becoming  as  broad 
as  the  sun  and  the  air — as  various  as  the  earth  over  which 
it  spreads  itself,  and  touched  with  that  love  which  God  has 
imaged  in  all  he  has  formed.  His  senses  take  a  quicker 
life, —  his  whole  frame  becomes  one  refined  and  exquisite 
emction,  and  the  etherealized  body  is  made,  as  it  were,  a 
spirit  in  blisc.  His  soul  grows  stronger  and  more  active 
within  him  as  he  sees  life  intense  and  working  throughout 
nature  ;  and  that  which  passes  away  links  itself  with  the 
eternal,  when  he  finds  new  life  beginning  even  with  decay, 
and  hastening  to  put  forth  in  some  other  form  of  beauty, 
and  become  a  sharer  in  some  new  delight.  His  spirit 
is  ever  awake  with  happy  sensations,  and  cheerful,  and  in 
nocent,  and  easy  thoughts.  Soul  and  body  are  blending 
into  one — the  senses  and  thoughts  mix  in  one  delight — he 
sees  a  universe  of  order,  and  beauty,  and  joy,  and  life,  of 
which  he  becomes  a  part,  and  he  finds  himself  carried 
along  in  the  eternal  going  on  of  nature.  Sudden  and  short 
lived  passions  of  men  take  no  hold  upon  him,  for  he  haa 
sat  in  holy  thought  by  the  roar  and  hurry  of  the  stream, 
which  has  rushed  on  from  the  beginning  of  things ;  and 
he  is  quiet  in  the  tumult  of  the  multitude,  for  he  has  watch 
ed  the  tracery  of  leaves  playing  over  the  foam. 

The  innocent  face  of  nature  gives  him  an  open  and 
fair  mind.  Pain  and  death  seem  passing  away,  for  all 
about  him  is  cheerful  and  in  its  spring.  His  virtues  are 
not  taught  him  as  lessons,  but  are  shed  upon  him,  and  enter 
into  him,  like  the  light  and  warmth  of  the  sun.  Amidst  all 
the  variety  of  earth,  he  sees  a  fitness  which  frees  him 
from  the  formalities  of  rule,  and  lets  him  abroad  to  find  a 
pleasure  in  all  things,  and  order  becomes  a  simple  feeling 
of  the  soul. 

Religion  to  such  a  one  has  thoughts,  and  visions,  and 
sensations,  tinged  as  it  were  with  a  holier  and  brighter 
light  than  falls  on  other  men.  The  love  and  reverence  of 
the  Creator  make  their  abode  in  his  imagination,  and  he 
gathers  about  them  the  earth,  and  air,  and  ideal  worlds 
His  heart  is  made  glad  with  the  perfectness  in  the  works 
of  God,  when  he  considers  that  even  of  the  multitude  of 
thinjs  that  are  growing  up  and  decaying,  and  of  those 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  429 

which  have  come  and  gone,  on  which  the  eye  of  man  has 
never  rested,  each  was  as  fair  and  complete  as  if  made  to 
live  forever  for  our  instruction  and  delight. 

Freedom,  and  order,  and  beauty,  and  grandeur,  are  in 
accordance  with  his  mind,  and  give  largeness  and  height  to 
hvs  thoughts, — he  moves  amongst  the  bright  clouds,  he  wan 
ders  away  into  the  measureless  depth  of  the  stars,  and  is 
touched  by  the  fire  with  which  God  has  lighted  them — all 
that  is  made  partakes  of  the  eternal,  and  religion  becomes 
a  perpetual  pleasure. 


Scene  at  JYiagtra. — Miss  SEDGWICK. 

THE  vehement  dashing  of  the  rapids  ;  the  sublime  falls 
the  various  hues  of  the  mass  of  waters  ;  the  snowy  white 
ness  and  the  deep  bright  green  ;  the  billowy  spray  that 
veils  in  deep  obscurity  the  depths  below  ;  the  verdant  island 
that  interposes  between  the  two  falls  half  veiled  in  a  misty 
mantle,  and  placed  there,  it  would  seem,  that  the  eye  and 
the  spirit  may  repose  on  it  ;  the  little  island  on  the  brink 
of  the  American  fall,  that  looks,  amidst  the  commotion  of 
the  waters,  like  the  sylvan  vessel  of  a  woodland  nymph  gayly 
sailing  onward, — or  as  if  the  wish  of  the  Persian  girl  were 
realized,  and  the  "  little  isle  had  wings," — a  thing  of  life 
and  motion  that  the  spirit  of  the  waters  had  inspired. 

The  profound  caverns,  with  their  overarching  rocks  ;  the 
quiet  habitations  along  the  margin  of  the  river, — peace 
ful  amid  all  the  uproar, — as  if  the  voice  of  the  Creator 
had  been  heard,  saying,  "  It  is  I ;  be  not  afraid ;"  the 
green  hill,  with  its  graceful  projections,  that  skirts  and 
overlooks  Table  Rock  ;  the  deep  and  bright  verdure  of  the 
foliage — every  spear  of  grass  that  penetrates  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks,  gemmed  by  the  humid  atmosphere,  and  spark 
ling  in  the  sunbeams ;  the  rainbow  that  rests  on  the  migh 
ty  torrent — a  symbol  of  the  smile  of  God  upon  his  won* 
drous  work. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?"  asked  Edward,  as  he  stood  with 
his  friends  on  Table  Rock,  where  they  had  remained 
gazing  on  the  magnificent  scene  for  fifteen  minutes 


430  COMMON-PLACE    BOOfe    OF    PROSE. 

without  uttering  a  syllable,  "  what  is  it,  mother,  that  makes 
as  all  so  silent'" 

"  It  is  the  spirit  of  God  moving  on  the  face  of  the  wa 
ters;  it  is  this  new  revelation  to  our  senses  of  hi^  power 
and  majesty,  which  ushers  us,  as  it  were,  into  his  visi 
ble  presence,  and  exalts  our  affections  above  language. 
What,  my  dear  children,  should  we  be,  without  the  religioua 
sentiment  that  is  to  us  as  a  second  sight,  by  which  we  see, 
in  all  this  beauty,  the  hand  of  the  Creator  ;  by  which  we  are 
permitted  to  join  in  the  hymn  of  nature  ;  by  which,  I  may 
say,  we  are  permitted  to  enter  into  the  joy  of  our  Lord? 
Without  it,  we  should  be  like  those  sheep,  who  are  at  this 
moment  grazing  on  the  verge  of  this  sublime  precipice, 
alike  unconscious  of  all  these  wonders,  and  of  their  Divine 
Original.  This  religious  sentiment  is,  in  truth,  Edward, 
that  Promethean  fire,  that  kindles  nature  with  alivingspir- 
it,  infuses  life  and  expression  into  inert  matter,  and  invests 
the  mortal  with  immortality."  Mrs.  Sackville's  eye  was 
upraised,  and  her  countenance  illumined  with  a  glow  of 
devotion  that  harmonized  with  the  scene.  "  It  is,  my  dear 
children,"  she  continued,  "this  religious  sentiment,  en 
lightened  and  directed  by  reason,  that  allies  you  to  exter 
nal  nature,  that  should  govern  your  affections,  direct  you" 
pursuits,  exalt  and  purify  your  pleasures,  and  make  you 
feel,  by  its  celestial  influence,  that  the  kingdom  is  within 
you:  but,"  she  added,  smiling,  after  a  momentary  pause, 
"  this  temple  does  not  need  a  preacher." 


Procession  of  Nuns  in  a  Catholic  Hospital. — 
Miss  FRANCIS. 

IT  was  autumn, — and  the  earth,  as  if  weary  of  the  van 
ities  of  her  children,  was  rapidly  changing  her  varied  and 
gorgeous  drapery  for  robes  as  sad  and  unadorned  as  those  of 
the  cloister  The  tall  and  almost  leafless  trees  stood  amid 
black  and  mouldering  stumps,  like  giants  among  the  tomb 
stones  :  the  faint  munnuring  voice  of  the  St.  Lawrence  was 
heard  in  the  distance,  and  the  winds  rustled  among  th« 
leaves,  as  if  imitating  the  sound  of  its  waters. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  431 

The  melancholy  that  we  feel  when  gazing  on  natural 
scenes  in  the  vigour  of  young  existence,  is  but  pleasure 
in  a  softened  form.  It  has  none  of  the  bitterness,  none 
of  that  soul-sickening  sense  of  desolation,  which  visits  us 
in  our  riper  years,  when  we  have  had  sad  experience  of 
the  jarring  interests,  the  selfish  coldness,  and  the  heartless 
caprice  of  the  world.  A  rich  imagination,  like  the  trans 
parent  mantle  of  light,  which  the  Flemish  artists  delight 
to  throw  around  their  pictures,  gives  its  own  glowing  hues 
to  the  dreariness  of  winter  and  the  sobriety  of  autumn,  as 
well  as  to  the  freshness  of  spring  and  the  verdure  of  sum 
mer  ;  and,  if  the  affections  are  calm  and  pure,  forests  and 
streams,  sky  and  ocean,  sunrise  and  twilight,  will  always 
bring  deep,  serene,  and  holy  associations.  Under  the  in 
fluence  of  such  feelings,  our  young  traveller  entered  Que 
bec,  just  as  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun  tinged  the  win 
dows  and  spires  with  a  fiery  beam,  and  fell  obliquely  on 
the  distant  hills  in  tranquil  radiance.  At  the  sign  of  St. 
George  and  the  Dragon,  the  horse  made  a  motion  to  pause  ; 
and,  thus  reminded  of  the  faithful  creature's  extreme  fa 
tigue,  he  threw  the  bridle  over  his  neck,  and  gave  him 
into  the  care  of  a  ragged  hostler,  who  in  bad  French  de 
manded  his  pleasure.  In  the  same  language  his  hostess 
gave  her  brief  salutation,  "  A  clever  night  to  ride,  please 
your  honour." 

Percival  civilly  replied  to  her  courtesy,  and  gave  orders 
for  supper.  The  inn  was  unusually  crowded  and  noisy  ;  and, 
willing  to  escape  awhile  from  the  bustling  scene,  he  walk 
ed  out  into  the  city.  The  loud  ringing  of  the  cathedral 
bells,  summoning  the  inhabitants  to  evening  prayer,  and  the 
rolling  of  drums  from  the  neighbouring  garrison,  were  at 
variance  with  the  quietude  of  his  spirit.  He  turned  from 
the  main  street,  and  rambled  along  until  he  reached  the  banks 
of  the  little  river  St.  Charles,  about  a  mile  westward  from  the 
town.  He  paused  before  the  extensive  and  venerable- 
looking  hospital,  founded  by  M.  de  St.  Valliere,  the  second 
bishop  of  Quebec.  The  high,  steep  roof,  and  the  wide 
portals,  beneath  which  various  images  of  the  saints  were 
safely  ensconced  in  their  respective  niches,  were  indistinctly 
eeen  in  the  dimness  of  twilight ;  but  a  rich  gush  of  sound 


432  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

from  the  interior  of  the  building  poured  on  the  ear,  min 
gling  the  deep  tones  of  the  organ  with  woman's  sweetest 
melody. 

All  that  painting  and  music,  pomp  and  pageantry,  can  do 
to  dazzle  the  imagination  and  captivate  the  heart,  has  ever 
been  employed  by  that  tremendous  hierarchy,  "  whose 
roots  were  in  another  world,  and  whose  far-stretching 
shadow  awed  our  own."  At  this  time,  the  effect  was  in 
creased  by  that  sense  of  mystery  so  delightful  to  the  hu 
man  soul.  "  Ora,  ora  pro  nobis,"  was  uttered  by  beings 
seclueed  from  the  world,  taking  no  part  in  the  busy  game 
of  life,  and  separated  from  all  that  awakens  the  tumult  of 
passion  and  the  eagerness  of  pursuit.  How,  then,  could 
fancy  paint  them  otherwise  than  lovely,  placid  and  spotless  ! 
Had  Percival  been  behind  the  curtain  during  these  sancti 
fied  dramas, — had  he  ever  searched  out  the  indolence,  the 
filth  and  the  profligacy,  secreted  in  such  retreats,  the  spell 
that  bound  him  would  have  been  broken ;  but  it  had  been 
riveted  by  early  association,  and  now  rendered  peculiarly 
delightful  by  the  excited  state  of  his  feelings.  Resigning 
himself  entirely  to  its  dominion,  he  inquired  of  one  who 
stood  within  the  door,  whether  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
gain  admittance. 

The  man  held  out  his  hand  for  money,  and,  having  re 
ceived  a  livre,  answered,  "  Certainly,  sir.  You  must  be 
a  stranger  in  Quebec,  or  you  would  know  that  there  is  to 
be  a  procession  of  white  nuns  to-night,  in  honour  of  M. 
de  St.  Valliere."  So  saying,  he  led  the  way  into  the 
building. 

An  old  priest,  exceedingly  lazy  in  his  manner,  and  mo 
notonous  in  his  tone,  was  reading  mass,  to  which  most  of 
the  audience  zealously  vociferated  a  response. 

An  arch,  ornamented  with  basso  relievo  figures  of  the 
saints  on  one  side  of  the  chancel,  surmounted  a  door  which 
apparently  led  to  an  interior  chapel ;  and  beneath  a  similar 
one,  on  the  opposite  side,  was  a  grated  window  shaded  by  a 
large,  flowing  curtain  of  black  silk. 

Behind  this  provoking  screen  were  the  daughters  of 
earth,  whom  our  traveller  supposed  to  be  as  beaulifi  1  as 
angels,  and  as  pure. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE.  433 

For  some  time  a  faint  response,  a  slight  cough,  or  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  alone  indicated  the  vicinity  of  the  seraphic 
beings. 

At  length,  however,  the  mass,  with  all  its  thousand  cer 
emonies,  was  concluded.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  there  was  heard  one  of  the  low,  thrilling  chants 
of  the  church  of  Rome. 

There  was  the  noise  of  light,  sandalled  feet.  The  mu 
sic  died  away  to  a  delicious  warbling,  faint,  yet  earnest  -f — 
then  gradually  rising  to  a  bold,  majestic  burst  of  sound,  the 
door  on  the  opposite  side  opened,  and  the  sisterhood  entered 
amid  a  glare  of  light. 

That  most  of  them  were  old  and  ugly  passed  unnoticed  ; 
for  whatever  visions  an  enthusiastical  imagination  might 
have  conjured  up,  were  certainly  realized  by  the  figure 
that  preceded  the  procession. 

Her  forehead  was  pale  and  lofty, — her  expression  prour1, 
but  highly  intellectual.  A  white  veil,  carelessly  pinned 
about  her  brow,  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  graceful  drape 
ry  ;  and,  as  she  glided  along,  the  loose,  white  robe,  that 
constituted  the  uniform  of  her  order,  displayed  to  the  utmost 
advantage  that  undulating  outline  of  beauty,  for  which  the 
statues  of  Psyche  are  so  remarkable. 

A  silver  crucifix  was  clasped  in  her  hands,  and  her  eyes 
were  steadily  raised  towards  heaven;  yet  there  was  some 
thing  in  her  general  aspect,  from  which  one  would  have 
concluded  that  the  fair  devotee  had  never  known  the  world, 
rather  than  that  she  had  left  it  in  weariness  or  disgust. 
Her  eye  happened  to  glance  on  our  young  friend  as  she 
passed  near  him ;  and  he  fancied  it  rested  a  moment  with 
delighted  attention. 

The  procession  moved  slowly  on  in  pairs,  the  apostles 
bearing  waxen  lights  on  either  side,  until  the  last  white 
robe  was  concealed  behind  an  arch  at  the  other  end  of  the 
extensive  apartment. 

The  receding  sounds  of  "  O  sanctissima,  0  purissima," 
floated  on  the  air  mingled  with  clouds  of  frankincense  ;  and 
the  young  man  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead  with  a  be 
wildered  sensation,  as  if  the  airy  phantoms  of  the  magic 
lantern  had  just  been  flitting  before  him.  A  notice  from 
37 


434  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE. 

the  porter,  that  the  nuns  were  now  at  the  altar  performing 
silent  mass,  and  that  the  doors  were  shortly  to  be  closed,  re 
called  his  recollection. 


Grandeur  of  astronomical  Discoveries. — WIRT. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  evening  in  the  month  of  May  ;  and 
my  sweet  child,  my  Rosalie,  and  I  had  sauntered  up  to  the 
castle's  top  to  enjoy  the  breeze  that  played  around  it,  and 
to  admire  the  unclouded  firmament,  that  glowed  and  spar 
kled  with  unusual  lustre  from  pole  to  pole.  The  atmos 
phere  was  in  its  purest  and  finest  state  for  vision ;  the 
milky  way  was  distinctly  developed  throughout  its  whole 
extent ;  every  planet  and  every  star  above  the  horizon, 
however  near  and  brilliant  or  distant  and  faint,  lent  its  lam 
bent  light  or  twinkling  ray  to  give  variety  and  beauty  to 
the  hemisphere  ;  while  the  round,  bright  moon  (so  distinct 
ly  defined  were  the  lines  of  her  figure,  and  so  clearly  vis 
ible  even  the  rotundity  of  her  form)  seemed  to  hang  off 
from  the  azure  vault,  suspended  in  midway  air  ;  or  stoop 
ing  forward  from  the  firmament  her  fair  and  radiant  face, 
as  if  to  court  and  return  our  gaze. 

We  amused  ourselves  for  some  time,  in  observing  through 
a  telescope  the  planet  Jupiter,  sailing  in  silent  majesty  with 
his  squadron  of  satellites  along  the  vast  ocean  of  space  be 
tween  us  and  the  fixed  stars ;  and  admired  the  felicity  of 
that  design,  by  which  those  distant  bodies  had  been  par 
celled  out  and  arranged  into  constellations  ;  so  as  to  have 
served  not  only  for  beacons  to  the  ancient  navigator,  but, 
as  it  were,  for  landmarks  to  astronomers  at  this  day  ;  ena 
bling  them,  though  in  different  countries,  to  indicate  to 
each  other  with  ease  the  place  and  motion  of  those  planets, 
comets  and  magnificent  meteors,  which  inhabit,  revolve, 
and  play  in  the  intermediate  space. 

We  recalled  and  dwelt  with  delight  on  the  rise  and  prog 
ress  of  the  science  of  astronomy  ;  on  that  series  of  aston, 
ishing  discoveries  through  successive  ages,  which  display- 
in  so  strong  a  light,  the  force  and  reach  of  the  human 
mind  ;  and  on  those  bold  conjectures  and  sublime  reveries, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE.  435 

which  seem  to  tower  even  to  the  confines  of  divinity,  and 
denote  the  high  destiny  to  which  mortals  tend : — that 
thought,  for  instance,  which  is  said  to  have  been  first  start 
ed  by  Pythagoras,  and  which  modern  astronomers  approve; 
that  the  stars  which  we  call  fixed,  although  they  appear  to 
us  to  he  nothing  more  than  large  spangles  of  various  sizes 
glittering  on  the  same  concave  surface,  are,  nevertheless, 
bodies  as  large  as  our  sun,  shini:ig,  like  him,  with  original 
and  not  reflected  light,  placed  at  incalculable  distances 
asunder,  and  each  star  the  solar  centre  of  a  system  of  plan 
ets,  which  revolve  around  it  as  the  planets  belonging  to  our 
system  do  around  the  sun  ;  that  this  is  not  only  the  case 
with  all  the  stars  which  our  eyes  discern  in  the  firmament, 
or  which  the  telescope  has  brought  within  the  sphere  of 
our  vision,  but,  according  to  the  modern  improvements  of 
this  thought,  that  there  are  probably  other  stars,  whose 
light  has  not  yet  reached  us,  although  light  moves  with  a 
velocity  a  million  times  greater  than  that  of  a  cannon  ball ; 
that  those  luminous  appearances,  which  we  observe  in  the 
firmament,  like  flakes  of  thin,  white  cloud,  are  windows,  as 
it  were,  which  open  to  other  firmaments,  far,  far  beyond  the 
ken  of  human  eye,  or  the  power  of  optical  instruments,  lighted 
up,  like  ours,  with  hosts  of  stars  or  suns  ;  that  this  scheme 
goes  on  through  infinite  space,  which  is  filled  with  thou 
sands  upon  thousands  of  those  suns,  attended  by  ten  thou 
sand  times  ten  thousand  worlds,  all  in  rapid  motion,  yet 
calm,  regular  and  harmonious,  invariably  keeping  the  paths 
prescribed  to  them  ;  and  these  worlds  peopled  with  myri 
ads  of  intelligent  beings. 

One  would  think  that  this  conception,  thus  extended, 
would  be  bold  enough  to  satisfy  the  whole  enterprise  of 
the  human  imagination.  But  what  an  accession  of  glory 
and  magnificence  does  Dr.  Herschell  superadd  to  it,  when, 
instead  of  supposing  all  those  suns  fixed,  and  the  motion 
confined  to  their  respective  planets,  he  loosens  those  multi 
tudinous  suns  themselves  from  their  stations,  sets  them  all 
into  motion  with  their  splendid  retinue  of  planets  and  sat 
ellites,  and  imagines  them,  thus  attended,  to  perform  a  stu 
pendous  revolution,  system  above  system,  around  some 
grander,  unknown  centre,  somewhere  in  the  boundlass  abysi 
of  space ! — and  when,  carrying  on  the  process,  you  sup 


436  COMMCN-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

pose  even  that  centre  itself  not  stationary,  but  also  coun 
terpoised  by  other  masses  in  the  immensity  of  spaces,  with 
which,  attended  by  their  accumulated  trains  of 

"  Planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres 
Wheeling  unshaken  through  the  void  immense," 

it  maintains  harmonious  concert,  surrounding,  in  its  vast 
career,  some  other  centre  still  more  remote  and  stupendous, 
which  in  its  turn "  You  overwhelm  me,"  cried  Rosa 
lie,  as  I  was  labouring  to  pursue  the  immense  concatena 
tion  ; — "  my  mind  is  bewildered  and  lost  in  the  effort  to 
follow  you,  and  finds  no  point  on  which  to  rest  its  weary 
wing." — "  Yet  there  is  a  point,  my  dear  Rosalie — the  throne 
of  the  Most  High.  Imagine  that  the  ultimate  centre,  to 
which  this  vast  and  inconceivably  magnificent  and  august 
apparatus  is  attached,  and  around  which  it  is  continually 
revolving.  Oh  !  what  a  spectacle  for  the  cherubim  and  ser 
aphim,  and  the  spirits  of  the  just  made  perfect,  who  dwell 
on  the  right  hand  of  that  throne,  if,  as  ma)r  be,  and  proba 
bly  is,  the  case,  their  eyes  are  permitted  to  pierce  through 
the  whole,  and  take  in,  at  one  glance,  all  its  order,  beau 
ty,  sublimity  and  glory,  and  their  ears  to  distinguish  that 
celestial  harmony,  unheard  by  us,  in  which  those  vast  globes, 
as  they  roll  on  in  their  respective  orbits,  continually  hymn 
their  great  Creator's  praise  !" 


Scenes  on  the  Prairies. — ANONYMOUS. 

ON  .hese  level  plains  some  of  my  dreams  of  the  pleas 
ures  of  wandering  were  realized.  We  were  all  in  the 
morning  of  life,  full  of  health  and  spirits,  on  horseback 
and  breathing  a  most  salubrious  air,  with  a  boundless  hori 
zon  open  before  us,  and,  shaping  our  future  fortune  and 
success  in  the  elastic  mould  of  youthful  hope  and  imagina 
tion,  we  could  hardly  be  other  than  happy.  Sometimes 
we  saw,  scouring  away  from  our  path,  horses,  asses,  mules, 
buffaloes  and  wolves,  in  countless  multitudes,  and  we  took, 
almost  with  too  much  ease  to  give  pleasure  in  the  chase, 
whatever  we  needed  for  luxurious  subsistence.  The  pas» 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  437 

cage  of  creeks  and  brooks  across  the  prairies  is  marked,  to 
the  utmost  extent  of  vision,  by  a  fringe  of  woods  and  count 
less  flowering  shrubs.  Sometimes  we  ascended  an  elevation 
of  some  height,  swelling  gently  from  the  plain.  Here  the 
eye  traces,  as  on  an  immense  map,  the  formation  and  grad 
ual  enlargement  of  these  rivulets,  and  sees  them  curving 
their  meandering  lines  to  a  point  of  union  with  another  of 
the  same  kind.  The  broadened  fringe  of  wood  indicates 
the  enlargement  of  the  stream,  and  the  eye  takes  in  at  one 
glance  the  gradual  formation  of  rivers.  The  night  brought 
us  up  on  the  edge  of  one  of  these  streams.  Our  beasts 
are  turned  loose  to  stretch  themselves  on  the  short  and 
tender  grass  to  feed  and  repose.  The  riders  collect  round 
a  fire  in  the  centre.  Supper  is  prepared  with  bread,  coffee, 
and  the  tenderest  parts  of  the  buffalo,  venison  and  other 
game.  The  appetite,  sharpened  by  exercise  on  horseback 
and  by  the  salubrious  air,  is  devouring.  The  story  circu 
lates.  Past  adventures  are  recounted,  and  if  they  receive 
something  of  the  cblouring  of  romance,  it  may  be  traced 
to  feelings  that  grow  out  of  the  occasion.  The  projects 
and  the  mode  of  journeying  on  the  morrow  are  discussed 
and  settled.  The  fire  flickers  in  the  midst.  The  wild 
horses  neigh,  and  the  prairie  wolves  howl  in  the  distance. 
Except  the  weather  threatens  storm,  the  tents  are  not 
pitched  The  temperature  of  the  night  air  is  both  saluta 
ry  and  delightful.  The  blankets  are  spread  upon  the  ten 
der  grass,  and  under  a  canopy  of  the  softest  blue,  decked 
with  all  the  visible  lights  of  the  sky.  The  party  sink  to  a 
repose,  which  the  exercise  of  the  preceding  day  renders 
as  unbroken  and  dreamless  as  that  of  the  grave.  I  awoke 
more  than  once  unconscious  that  a  moment  had  elapsed  be 
tween  the  time  of  my  lying  down  and  my  rising. 

The  day  before  we  came  in  view  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains,  I  saw,  in  the  greatest  perfection,  that  impressive, 
and  to  me  almost  sublime  spectacle,  an  immense  drove  of 
wiltl  horses,  for  a  long  time  hovering  round  our  path  across 
the  prairies.  I  had  often  seen  great  numbers  of  them  be 
fore,  mixed  with  other  animals,  apparently  quiet,  and  graz 
ing  like  the  rest.  Here  there  were  thousands,  unmixed, 
unemployed  ;  their  motions,  if  such  a  comparison  might  be 
allowed,  as  darting  and  as  wild  as  those  of  humming-bird* 
37* 


438  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSE. 

on  the  flowers.  The  tremendous  snorts,  with  which  the 
front  columns  of  the  phalanx  made  known  their  approach 
to  us,  seemed  to  be  their  wild  and  energetic  way  cf  ex 
pressing  their  pity  and  disdain  for  the  servile  lot  of  our 
horses,  of  which  they  appeared  to  be  taking  a  survey.  They 
were  of  all  colours,  mixed,  spotted  and  diversified  with 
every  hue,  from  the  brightest  white  to  clear  and  shining 
black  ;  and  of  every  form  and  structure,  from  the  long  and 
slender  racer  to  those  of  firmer  limbs  and  heavier  mould  , 
and  of  all  ages,  from  the  curvetting  colt  to  the  range  of 
patriarchal  steeds,  drawn  up  in  a  line,  and  holding  their 
high  heads  for  a  survey  of  us  in  the  rear.  Sometimes  they 
curved  their  necks,  and  made  no  more  progress  than  just 
enough  to  keep  pace  with  our  advance.  There  was  a  kind 
of  slow  and  walking  minuet,  in  which  they  performed  va 
rious  evolutions  with  the  precision  of  the  figures  of  a  coun 
try  dance.  Then  a  rapid  movement  shifted  the  front  to 
the  rear.  But  still,  in  all  their  evolutions  and  movements, 
like  the  flight  of  sea-fowl,  their  lines  were  regular,  and  free 
from  all  indications  of  confusion.  At  times  a  spontaneous 
and  sudden  movement  towards  us  almost  inspired  the  ap 
prehension  of  a  united  attack  upon  us.  After  a  moment's 
advance,  a  snort  and  a  rapid  retrograde  movement  seemed 
to  testify  their  proud  estimate  of  their  wild  independence. 
The  infinite  variety  of  their  rapid  movements,  their  tam- 
perings  and  manoeuvres,  were  of  such  a  wild  and  almost 
terrific  character,  that  it  required  but  a  moderate  stretch 
of  fancy  to  suppose  them  the  genii  of  these  grassy  plains. 
At  one  period  they  were  formed  to  an  immense  depth  in 
front  of  us.  A  wheel,  executed  almost  with  the  rapidity 
of  thought,  presented  them  hovering  on  our  flanks.  Then 
again,  the  cloud  of  Just  that  enveloped  their  movements 
cleared  away,  and  presented  them  in  our  rear.  They  evi 
dently  operated  as  a  great  annoyance  to  the  horses  and 
mules  of  our  cavalcade.  The  frighted  movements,  the  in 
creased  indications  of  fatigue,  with  their  frequent  neighings 
sufficiently  evidenced  what  unpleasant  neighbours  they 
eonsidered  their  wild  compatriots  to  be.  So  much  did  our 
horses  appear  to  suffer  from  fatigue  and  terror  in  conse 
quence  of  their  vicinity,  that  we  were  thinking  of  some 
way  in  which  to  drive  them  off;  when,  on  a  sudden,  a  pa 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  439 

tient  and  laborious  donkey  of  the  establishment,  who  ap 
peared  to  have  regarded  all  their  movements  with  philo 
sophic  indifference,  pricked  up  his  long  ears,  and  gave  a 
loud  and  most  sonorous  bray  from  his  vocal  shells.  Instant 
ly  this  prod'gious  multitude — and  there  were  thousands  of 
them — took  what  the  Spanish  call  the  "  stompado."  With 
a  trampling  like  the  noise  of  thunder,  or  still  more  like  that 
of  an  earthquake, — a  noise  that  was  absolutely  appalling, — • 
they  took  to  their  heels,  and  were  all  in  a  few  moments 
invisible  in  the  verdant  depths  of  the  plains,  and  we  saw 
them  no  more. 


Eulogy  on  William  Perm. — Du  PONCEAU. 

WILLIAM  PENN  stands  the  first  among  the  lawgivers, 
whose  names  and  deeds  are  recorded  in  history.  Shall  we 
compare  him  with  Lycurgus,  Solon,  Romulus,  those  foun 
ders  of  military  commonwealths,  whoorganized  their  citizen 
in  dreadful  array  against  the  rest  of  their  species,  taught 
them  to  consider  their  fellow-men  as  barbarians,  and  them 
selves  as  alone  worthy  to  rule  over  the  earth  ?  What  benefit 
did  mankind  derive  from  their  boasted  institutions  ?  Inter 
rogate  the  shades  of  those  who  fell  in  the  mighty  contests 
between  Athens  and  Lacedamon,  between  Carthage  and 
Rome,  and  between  Rome  and  the  rest  of  the  universe. 
But  see  William  Penn,  with  weaponless  hand,  sitting  down 
peaceably  with  his  followers  in  the  midst  of  savage  nations, 
whose  only  occupation  was  shedding  the  blood  of  their 
fellow-men,  disarming  them  by  his  justice,  and  teaching 
them,  for  the  first  time,  to  view  a  stranger  without  distrust. 
See  them  bury  their  tomahawks,  in  his  presence,  so  deep 
that  man  shall  never  be  able  to  find  them  again.  See  them, 
•inder  the  shade  of  the  thick  groves  of  Coaquannock,  extend 
Itie  bright  chain  of  friendship,  and  solemnly  promise  to 
preserve  it  as  long  as  the  sun  and  moon  shall  endure.  Set, 
him  then,  with  his  companions,  establishing  his  common 
wealth  on  the  sole  basis  of  religion,  morality  and  universal 
love,  and  adopting,  as  the  fundamental  maxim  of  his  gov 
ernment,  the  rule  handed  down  to  us  from  heaven,  Glory 


440  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

to  God  on  high,  and  on  earth  peace  and  good  will  to 
•men.  Here  was  a  spectacle  for  the  potentates  of  the  earth 
to  look  upon, — an  example  for  them  to  imitate.  But  the  po 
tentates  of  the  earth  did  not  see,  or,  if  they  saw,  they  turn 
ed  away  their  eyes  from  the  sight :  they  did  not  hear,  or, 
if  they  heard,  they  shut  their  ears  against  the  voice  which 
called  out  to  them  from  the  wilderness, 

"  Discite  justitiam  nioniti,  et  non  temnere  Divos." 

The  character  of  William  Penn  alone  sheds  a  never-fad 
ing  lustre  on  our  history. 


Morbid  Effects  of  Envy,  Malice,  and  Hatred. — 
RUSH. 

ENVY  is  commonly  the  parent  of  malice  and  hatred.  Of 
this  vice  it  may  be  truly  asserted,  that  it  is  deep-seated, 
and  always  painful ;  hence  it  has  been  said  by  an  inspired 
writer  to  resemble  "  rottenness  in  the  bones  ;"  and  by  Lord 
Bacon  "  to  know  no  holydays."  It  is  likewise  a  monopo 
lizing  vice.  Alexander  envied  his  successful  generals, 
and  Garrick  was  hostile  to  all  the  popular  players  of  his 
day.  It  is  moreover  a  parricide  vice;  for  it  not  only  emits 
its  poison  against  its  friends,  but  against  the  persons,  who, 
by  the  favours  it  has  conferred  upon  those  who  cherish  it, 
have  become  in  one  respect  the  authors  of  their  being  ;  and, 
lastly,  it  possesses  a  polypus  life.  No  kindness,  gentleness 
or  generosity  can  destroy  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  derives 
fresh  strength  from  every  act  which  it  experiences  of  any 
of  them.  It  likewise  survives  and  often  forgives  the  re 
sentment  it  sometimes  occasions,  but  without  ceasing  to 
hate  the  talents,  virtues  or  personal  endowments  by  which 
it  was  originally  excited.  Nor  is  it  satiated  by  the  appa 
rent  extinction  of  them  in  death.  This  is  obvious  from  its 
so  frequently  opening  the  sanctuary  of  the  grave,  and  rob 
bing  the  possessors  of  those  qualities  of  the  slender  re 
mains  it  had  left  them  of  posthumous  fame. 

However  devoid  this  vice  and  its  offspring  may  be  of  re 
missions,  they  now  and  then  appear  in  the  form  of  parov 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK.  OF  PROSE.  441 

ysms,  which  discover  themselves  in  tremors,  paleness  and 
a  suffusion  of  the  face  with  red  blood.  The  face  in  this 
case  performs  the  vicarious  office,  which  has  lately  been 
ascribed  to  the  spleen.  But  their  effects  appear  more  fre 
quently  in  slow  fevers,  and  in  a  long  train  of  nervous  dis 
eases.  Persons  affected  with  them  seldom  acknowledge 
their  true  cause.  A  single  Instance,  only,  of  this  candour, 
is  mentioned  by  Dr.  Tissot .  He  tells  us  he  was  once  con 
sulted  by  a  gentleman,  who  told  him  that  all  his  complaints 
were  brought  on  by  his  intense  and  habitual  hatred  of  an 
enemy.  Many  of  the  chronic  diseases  of  high  life  and 
of  professional  men,  I  have  no  doubt,  are  induced  by  the 
same  cause. 

I  once  thought  that  medicine  had  not  a  single  remedy 
in  all  its  stores,  that  could  subdue,  or  even  palliate,  the  dis 
eases  induced  by  the  baneful  passions  which  have  been 
described,  and  that  an  antidote  to  them  was  to  be  found 
only  in  religion ;  but  I  have  since  recollected  one,  and 
heard  of  another  physical  remedy,  that  will  at  least  palliate 
them.  The  first  is,  frequent  convivial  society  between 
persons  who  are  hostile  to  each  other.  It  never  fails  to 
soften  resentments,  and  sometimes  produces  reconciliation 
and  friendship.  The  reader  will  be  surprised  when  I  add 
that  the  second  physical  remedy  was  suggested  to  me  by  a 
madman  in  the  Pennsylvania  hospital.  In  conversing  with 
him,  he  produced  a  large  collection  of  papers,  which  he 
said  contained  his  journal.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  I  write 
down  every  thing  that  passes  in  my  mind,  and  particularly 
malice  and  revenge.  In  recording  the  latter,  I  feel  my 
mind  emptied  of  something  disagreeable  to  it,  just  as  an 
emetic  relieves  the  stomach  of  bile.  When  I  look  at  what 
I  have  written  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  I  feel  ashamed  and 
dhgusted  with  it,  and  wish  to  throw  it  into  the  fire."  I 
have  no  doubt  of  the  utility  of  this  remedy  for  envy,  malice 
and  hatred,  from  its  salutary  effects  in  a  similar  case.  A 
gentleman  in  this  city  informed  me,  that,  after  writing  an 
attack  for  the  press  upon  a  person  who  had  offended  him, 
ha  was  sc  struck  with  its  malignity  upon  reading  it,  that 
he  instantly  destroyed  it.  The  French  nobility  sometimes 
cover  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  a  room  in  their  houses 
with  looking  glasses  The  room  thus  furnished  is  called 


442  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PIIOSE, 

a  boudoir.  Did  ill-natured  people  imitate  the  practic* 
of  the  madman  and  gentleman  I  have  mentioned,  by  put 
ting  their  envious,  malicious  and  revengeful  thoughts  upou 
paper,  it  would  form  a  mirror  that  would  serve  the  same 
purpose  of  pointing  out  and  remedying  the  evil  dispositions 
of  the  mind,  that  the  boudoir  in  France  serves,  in  discov 
ering  and  remedying  the  defects  in  the  attitudes  and  dress 
of  the  body. 

To  persons  who  are  not  ashamed  and  disgusted  with  the 
first  sight  of  their  malevolent  effusions  upon  paper,  tha 
same  advice  may  be  given  that  Dr.  Franklin  gave  to  a  gen 
tleman,  who  read  part  of  a  humorous  satire  which  he  had 
written  upon  the  person  and  character  of  a  respectable  cit 
izen  of  Philadelphia.  After  he  had  finished  reading  it,  h* 
asked  the  doctor  what  he  thought  of  his  publishing  it. 
"  Keep  it  by  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "  for  one  year,  and  then 
ask  me  that  question."  The  gentleman-  felt  the  force  of 
this  answer,  went  immediately  to  the  printer  who  had  com 
posed  the  first  page  of  it,  took  it  from  him,  and  consigned 
'he  whole  manuscript  to  oblivion. 


Appearance  of  the  first  Settlements  of  the  Pilgrims. — 
Miss  SEDGWICK. 

THE  first  settlers  followed  the  course  of  the  Indians, 
and  planted  themselves  on  the  borders  of  rivers, — the  nat 
ural  gardens  of  the  earth,  where  the  soil  is  mellowed  and 
enriched  by  the  annual  overflowing  of  the  streams,  and 
prepared  by  the  unassisted  processes  of  nature  to  yield  to 
the  indolent  Indian  his  scanty  supply  of  maize  and  other 
esculents.  The  wigwams  which  constituted  the  village, 
or,  to  use  the  graphic  aboriginal  designation,  the  "  smoke," 
of  the  natives,  gave  place  to  the  clumsy,  but  more  conve 
nient  dwellings  of  the  pilgrims. 

Where  there  are  now  contiguous  rows  of  shops,  filled 
with  the  merchandise  of  the  East,  the  manufactures  of  Eu 
rope,  the  rival  fabrics  of  our  own  country,  and  the  fruits 
of  the  tropics  ;  where  now  stand  the  stately  hall  of  justice, 
the  academy,  the  bank,  church  >s,  orthodox  and  heretic,  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  443 

all  the  symbols  of  a  rich  and  populous  community, — were, 
at  the  early  period  of  our  history,  a  few  log-houses  planted 
around  a  fort,  defended  by  a  slight  embankment  and  pal 
isade. 

The  mansions  of  the  proprietors  were  rather  more  spa 
cious  and  artificial  than  those  of  their  more  humble  associ 
ates,  and  were  built  on  the  well  known  model  of  the  modest 
dwelling-house  illustrated  by  the  birth  of  Milton — a  form 
still  aoounding  in  the  eastern  parts  of  Massachusetts,  and 
presenting  to  the  eye  of  a  New  Englander  the  familiar  as 
pect  ol  an  awkward,  friendly  country  cousin. 

The  first  clearing  was  limited  to  the  plain.  The  beau 
tiful  hill,  that  is  now  the  residence  of  the  gentry,  (for 
there  yet  lives  such  a  class  in  the  heart  of  our  democratic 
community,)  and  is  embellished  with  stately  edifices  and 
expensive  pleasure-grounds,  was  then  the  border  of  a 
dense  forest,  and  so  richly  fringed  with  the  original  growth 
of  trees,  that  scarce  a  sunbeam  had  penetrated  to  the  parent 
earth 

Mr  Fletcher  was  at  first  welcomed  as  an  important  ac 
quisition  to  the  infant  establishment,  but  he  soon  proved 
that  he  purposed  to  take  no  part  in  its  concerns,  and,  in  spite 
of  the  remonstrances  of  the  proprietors,  he  fixed  his  resi 
dence  a  mile  from  the  village,  deeming  exposure  to  the 
incursions  of  the  savages  very  slight,  and  the  surveillance 
of  an  inquiring  neighbourhood  a  certain  evil.  His  domain 
extended  from  a  gentle  eminence,  that  commanded  an  exten 
sive  view  of  the  bountiful  Connecticut  to  the  shore,  where 
the  river  indented  the  meadow  by  one  of  those  sweeping, 
graceful  curves,  by  which  it  seems  to  delight  to  beautify 
the  land  it  nourishes. 

The  border  of  the  river  was  fringed  with  all  the  water- 
loving  irees;  but  the  broad  meadows  were  quite  cleared, 
excepting  that  a  few  elms  and  sycamores  had  been  spared 
by  the  Indians,  and  consecrated  by  tradition,  as  the  scene 
-of  revels  or  councils.  The  house  of  our  pilgrim  was  a 
low-roofed,  modest  structure,  containing  ample  accommo 
dation  for  a  patriarchal  family ;  where  children,  depen 
dents  and  servants  were  all  to  be  sheltered  under  one  roof- 
tree.  On  one  side,  as  we  have  described,  lay  an  open  and 
extensive  plain  ;  within  view  was  the  curling  smoke  from 


444  COMMON-PLACE   BOOK.  OF  PROSE. 

the  little  cluster  of  houses  about  the  fort — the  h*bitatio& 
of  civilized  man  ;  but  all  else  was  a  savage,  howling  wil 
derness. 

Never  was  a  name  more  befitting  the  condition  of  a  peo 
ple,  than  "  pilgrim"  that  of  our  forefathers.  It  should  ba 
redeemed  from  the  Puritanical  and  ludicrous  associations 
which  have  degraded  it  in  most  men's  minds,  and  be  hal 
lowed  by  the  sacrifices  made  by  these  voluntary  exiles. 
They  were  pilgrims,  for  they  had  resigned  forever  what 
the  good  hold  most  dear — their  homes.  Home  can  never 
be  transferred ;  never  repeated  in  the  experience  of  an  in 
dividual.  The  place  consecrated  by  parental  love,  by  the 
innocence  and  sports  of  childhood,  by  the  first  acquaintance 
with  nature,  by  the  linking  of  the  heart  to  the  visible  cre 
ation,  is  the  only  home.  There,  there  is  a  living  and  a 
breathing  spirit  infused  into  nature :  every  familiar  object  has 
a  history — the  trees  have  tongues,  and  the  very  air  is  vocal. 
There  the  vesture  of  decay  doth  not  close  •  in  and  control 
the  noble  functions  of  the  soul.  It  sees,  and  hears,  and 
enjoys,  without  the  ministry  of  gross,  material  substance 


Description  of  a  Herd  of  Bisons. — COOPER. 

"  THERE  come  the  buffaloes  themselves,  and  a  noble 
herd  it  is.  I  warrant  me  that  Pawnee  has  a  troop  of  his 
people  in  some  of  the  hollows  nigh  by  ;  and,  as  he  has 
gone  scampering  after  them,  you  are  about  to  see  a  glori 
ous  chase.  It  will  serve  to  keep  the  squatter  and  his  brood 
under  cover,  and  for  ourselves  there  is  little  reason  to  fear. 
A  Pawnee  is  not  apt  to  be  a  malicious  savage." 

Every  eye  was  now  drawn  to  the  striking  spectacle  that 
succeeded.  Even  the  timid  Inez  hastened  to  the  stde  of 
Middleton  to  gaze  at  the  sight,  and  Paul  summoned  Ellen 
from  her  culinary  labours,  to  become  a  witness  of  the  live 
ly  scene. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  these  moving  events  which  it 
has  been  our  duty  to  record,  the  prairies  had  lain  in  all  the 
majesty  of  perfect  solitude.  The  heavens  had  been  black 
ened  with  the  passage  of  the  migratory  birds,  it  is  true. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE.  443 

but  the  dogs  of  the  party  and  the  ass  of  the  doctor  were 
the  only  quadrupeds  that  had  enlivened  the  broad  surface 
of  the  waste  beneath.  There  was  now  a  sudden  exhibition 
of  animal  life,  which  changed  the  scene,  as  it  were  by 
magic,  to  the  very  opposite  extreme. 

A  few  enormous  bison  bulls  were  first  observed  scouring 
along  the  most  distant  roll  of  the  prairie,  and  then  suc 
ceeded  long  files  of  single  beasts,  which,  in  their  turns, 
were  followed  by  a  dark  mass  of  bodies,  until  the  dun- 
coloured  herbage  of  the  plain  was  entirely  lost  in  the  deep 
er  hue  of  their  shaggy  coats.  The  herd,  as  the  column 
spread  and  thickened,  was  like  the  endless  flocks  of  the 
smaller  birds,  whose  extended  flanks  are  so  often  seen  to 
heave  up  out  of  the  abyss  of  the  heavens,  until  they  ap 
pear  as  countless  as  the  leaves  in  those  forests,  over  which 
they  wing  their  endless  flight.  Clouds  of  dust  shot  up  in 
little  columns  from  the  centre  of  the  mass,  as  some  animal 
more  furious  than  the  rest  ploughed  the  plain  with  his 
horns,  and,  from  time  to  time,  a  deep,  hollow  bellowing 
was  borne  along  on  the  wind,  as  though  a  thousand  throats 
vented  their  plaints  in  a  discordant  murmuring. 

A  long  and  musing  silence  reigned  in  the  party,  as  they 
gazed  on  this  spectacle  of  wild  and  peculiar  grandeur.  It 
was  at  length  broken  by  the  trapper,  who,  having  been  long 
accustomed  to  similar  sights,  felt  less  of  its  influence,  or 
rather  felt  it  in  a  less  thrilling  and  absorbing  manner,  than 
those  to  whom  the  scene  was  more  novel. 

"  There  go  ten  thousand  oxen  in  one  drove,  without 
keeper  or  master,  except  Him  who  made  them,  and  gave 
them  these  open  plains  for  their  pasture  !  Ay,  it  is  here 
that  man  may  see  the  proofs  of  his  wantonness  and  folly  ! 
Can  the  proudest  governor  in  all  the  States  go  iato  his 
fields,  and  slaughter  a  nobler  bullock  than  is  here  offered 
to  the  meanest  hands  ?  and,  when  he  has  gotten  his  sirloin 
or  his  steak,  can  he  eat  it  with  as  good  a  relish  as  he  who 
has  s  ,veetened  his  food  with  wholesome  toil,  and  earned  it 
according  to  the  law  of  natur',  by  honestly  mastering  that 
which  the  Lord  hath  put  before  him  ?" 

"  If  the  prairie  platter  is  smoking  with  a  buffaloe's  hump, 
I  answer,  no,"  interrupted  tha  luxurious  bee-hunter. 
38 


446  COMMON  PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

"  Ay,  boy,  you  have  tasted,  and  you  feel  the  genuine 
reasoning  of  the  thing.  But  the  herd  is  heading  a  little 
this-a-way,  and  it  behooves  us  to  m'ake  ready  for  their  visit. 
If  we  hide  ourselves,  altogether,  the  horned  brutes  will 
break  through  the  place,  and  trample  us  beneath  their  feet, 
like  so  many  creeping  worms  ;  so  we  will  just  put  the 
weak  ones  apart,  and  take  post,  as  becomes  men  and  hunt 
ers,  in  the  van." 

As  there  was  but  little  time  to  make  the  necessary  at 
rangernentSjthe  whole  party  set  about  them  in  good  earnest. 
Inez  and  Ellen  were  placed  in  the  edge  of  the  thicket  on 
the  side  farthest  from  the  approaching  herd.  Asinus  was 
posted  in  the  centre,  in  consideration  of  his  nerves,  and 
then  the  old  man,  with  his  three  male  companions,  divided 
themselves  in  such  a  manner  as  they  thought  would  enable 
them  to  turn  the  head  of  the  rushing  column,  should  it 
chance  to  approach  too  nigh  their  position.  By  the  vacil 
lating  movements  of  some  fifty  or  a  hundred  bulls,  that  led 
the  advance,  it  remained  questionable,  for  many  moments, 
what  course  they  intended  to  pursue.  But  a  tremendous 
and  painful  roar,  which  came  from  behind  the  cloud  of  dust 
that  rose  in  the  centre  of  the  herd,  and  which  was  horridly 
answered  by  the  screams  of  the  carrion  birds,  that  were 
greedily  sailing  directly  above  the  flying  drove,  appeared 
to  give  a  new  impulse  to  their  flight,  and  at  once  to  remove 
every  symptom  of  indecision.  As  if  glad  to  seek  the  small 
est  signs  of  the  forest,  the  whole  of  the  affrighted  herd 
became  steady  in  its  direction,  rushing  in  a  straight  line 
toward  the  little  cover  of  bushes,  which  has  already  been 
so  often  named. 

The  appearance  of  danger  was  now,  in  reality,  of  a 
character  to  try  the  stoutest  nerves.  The  flanks  of  the 
dark,  moving  mass,  were  advanced  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
make  a  concave  line  of  the  front,  and  every  fierce  eye, 
that  was  glaring  from  the  shaggy  wilderness  of  hair,  in 
which  the  entire  heads  of  the  males  were  enveloped,  was 
riveted  with  mad  anxiety  on  the  thicket.  It  seemed  as  if 
each  beast  strove  to  outstrip  his  neighbour  in  gaining  this 
desired  cover,  and  as  thousands  in  the  rear  pressed  blindly 
on  those  in  front,  there  was  the  appearance  of  an  imminent 
nsk  that  the  leaders  of  the  herd  would  be  precipitated  on  the 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  447 

concealed  party,  in  which  case  the  destruction  of  every 
one  of  them  was  certain.  Each  of  our  adventurers  felt  the 
danger  of  his  situation  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  his  individ 
ual  character  and  circumstances. 


The  old  man,  who  had  stood  all  this  while  leaning  on  his 
rifle,  and  regarding  the  movements  of  the  herd  with  a 
steady  eye,  now  deemed  it  •me  to  strike  his  blow.  Lev 
elling  his  piece  at  the  foremost  bull,  with  an  agility  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  his  youth,  he  fired.  The  ani 
mal  received  the  bullet  on  the  matted  hair  between  his 
horns,  and  fell  to  his  knees  ;  but,  shaking  his  head,  he  in 
stantly  arose,  the  very  shock  seeming  to  increase  his  exer 
tions.  There  was  now  no  longer  time  to  hesitate.  Throw 
ing  down  his  rifle,  the  trapper  stretched  forth  his  arms,  and 
advanced  from  the  cover  with  naked  hands,  directly  towards 
the  rushing  column  of  the  beasts. 

The  figure  of  a  man,  when  sustained  by  the  firmness 
and  steadiness  that  intellect  can  only  impart,  rarely  fails 
of  commanding  respect  from  all  the  inferior  animals  of  the 
creation.  The  leading  bulls  recoiled,  and,  for  a  single  in 
stant,  there  was  a  sudden  stop  to  their  speed,  a  dense  mass 
of  bodies  rolling  up  in  front,  until  hundreds  were  seen 
floundering  and  tumbling  on  the  plain.  Then  came  another 
of  those  hollow  bellowings  from  the  rear,  and  set  the  herd 
again  in  motion.  The  head  of  the  column,  however,  di 
vided  ;  the  immoveable  form  of  the  trapper  cutting  it, 
as  it  were,  into  two  gliding  streams  of  life.  Middleton 
and  Paul  instantly  profited  by  his  example,  and  extended 
the  feeble  barrier  by  a  similar  exhibition  of  their  own  per 
sons. 

For  a  few  moments,  the  new  impulse  given  to  the  ani 
mals  in  front  served  to  protect  the  thicket.  But,  as  the 
body  of  the  herd  pressed  more  and  more  upon  the  open  line 
of  its  defenders,  and  the  dust  thickened  so  as  to  obscure 
their  persons,  there  was,  at  each  instant,  a  renewed  danger 
of  the  beasts  breaking  through.  It  became  necessary  for 
the  trapper  and  his  companions  to  become  still  more  and 
more  alert ;  and  they  were  gradually  yielding  before  the 
headlong  multitude,  when  a  furious  lull  darted  by  M;-i 


443  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OP  PROSE. 

dleton,  so  near  as  to  brush  his  person,  and,  at  the  next 
instant,  swept  through  the  thicket  with  the  velocity  of  tha 
wind. 

"  Close,  and  die  for  the  ground,"  shouted  the  old  man, 
'  or  a  thousand  of  the  devils  will  be  at  his  heels  !" 

All  their  efforts  would  have  proved  fruitless,  however, 
against  the  living  torrent,  had  not  Asinus,  whose  domains 
had  just  been  so  rudely  entered,  lifted  his  voice  in  the  midst 
of  the  uproar.  The  most  sturdy  and  furious  of  the  bulls 
trembled  at  the  alarming  and  unknown  cry,  and  then  each 
individual  brute  was  seen  madly  pressing  from  that  very 
thicket,  which,  the  moment  before,  he  had  endeavoured  to 
reach  with  the  same  sort  of  eagerness  as  that  with  which 
the  murderer  seeks  the  sanctuary. 

As  the  stream  divided,  the  place  became  clear  ;  the  two 
dark  columns  moving  obliquely  from  the  copse  to  unite 
again  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  on  its  opposite  side.  The 
instant  the  old  man  saw  the  sudden  effect  which  the  voice 
of  Asinus  had  produced,  he  coolly  commenced  reloading 
his  rifle,  indulging,  at  the  same  time,  in  a  most  heartfelt  fit 
of  his  silent  and  peculiar  merriment. 


The  uproar,  which  attended  the  passage  of  the  herd,  was 
now  gone,  or  rather  it  was  heard  rolling  along  the  prairie, 
at  the  distance  of  a  mile.  The  clouds  of  dust  were  already 
blown  away  by  the  wind,  and  a  clear  range  was  left  to  the 
eye,  in  that  place  where,  ten  minutes  before,  there  existed 
such  a  strange  scene  of  wildness  and  confusion. 


The  Character  of  Jesus. — REV.  S.  C.  THACHER. 

WE  find  in  the  life  of  Jesus  a  union  of  qualities,  which 
had  never  before  met  in  any  being  on  this  earth.  We  find 
Embodied  in  his  example  the  highest  virtues  both  of  active 
and  of  contemplative  life.  We  see  united  in  him  a  devo 
tion  to  God  the  most  intense,  abstracted,  unearthly,  with 
a  benevolence  to  man  the  most  active,  affectionate  and  uni 
versal.  We  s«e  qualities  meet  and  harmonize  in  his  char- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE.  449 

acter,  which  are  usually  thought  the  most  uncongenial, 
We  see  a  force  of  character,  which  difficulties  cannot  con 
quer,  an  energy  which  calamity  cannot  relax,  a  fortitude 
and  constancy  which  sufferings  can  neither  subdue  nor 
bend  from  their  purpose  ;  connected  with  the  most  melting 
tenderness  and  sensibility  of  spirit,  the  most  exquisite  sus 
ceptibility  to  every  soft  and  gentle  impression.  We  see  in 
him  the  rare  union  of  zeal  and  moderation,  of  courage  and 
prudence,  of  compassion  and  firmness  ;  we  see  superiority 
to  the  world  without  gloom  or  severity,  or  indifference  or 
distaste  to  its  pursuits  and  enjoyments.  In  short,  there  is 
something  in  the  whole  conception  and  tener  of  our  Sa 
viour's  character  so  entirely  peculiar,  something  which  so 
realizes  the  ideal  model  of  the  most  consummate  moral 
beauty ;  something  so  lovely,  so  gracious,  so  venerable  and 
commanding,  that  the  boldest  infidels  have  shrunk  from  it 
overawed,  and,  though  their  cause  is  otherwise  desperate, 
have  yet  feared  to  profane  its  perfect  purity.  One  of  the 
most  eloquent  tributes  to  its  sublimity,  that  was  ever  utter 
ed,  was  extorte.d  from  the  lips  of  an  infidel.  "  Is  there 
any  thing  in  it,"  he  exclaims,  "  of  the  tone  of  an  enthusi 
ast,  or  of  an  ambitious  sectary  ?  What  sweetness,  what 
purity  in  his  manners  ;  what  touching  grace  in  his  instruc 
tions  ;  what  elevation  in  his  maxims  ;  what  profound  wis 
dom  in  his  discourses ;  what  presence  of  mind,  what  skill 
and  propriety  in  his  answers  ;  what  empire  over  his  pas 
sions  !  Where  is  the  man,  where  is  the  sage,  who  knows 
how  to  act,  to  suffer  and  to  die,  without  weakness  and  with 
out  ostentation  ?  When  Plato  paints  his  imaginary  just 
man  covered  with  all  the  ignominy  of  crime,  and  yet  wor 
thy  of  all  the  honours  of  virtue,  he  paints  in  every  feature 
the  character  of  Christ.  What  prejudice,  what  blindness 
must  possess  us  to  compare  the  son  of  Soproniscus  to  the 
•on  of  Mary  !  How  vast  the  distance  between  them  . 
Socrates,  dying  without  pain  and  without  ignominy,  easily 
sustains  his  character  to  the  last ;  and,  if  this  gentle  death 
had  not  honoured  his  life,  we  might  have  doubted  whether 
Socrates,  with  all  his  genius,  was  any  thing  more  than  a 
sophist.  The  death  of  Socrates,  philosophizing  tranquilly 
with  his  friends,  is  the  most  easy  that  one  could  desire ; 
that  of  Jesus,  expiring  in  torture,  insulted,  mocked,  exe- 
38* 


450  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  PROSE. 

crated  by  a  whole  people,  is  the  m  .st  horrible  that  one  can 
'ear.  Socrates,  when  he  takes  the  poisoned  cup,  blesses 
him  who  weeps  as  he  presents  it;  Jesus,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  dreadful  tortures,  prays  for  his  infuriated  execu 
tioners. — Yes !  if  the  life  and  death  of  Socrates  are  those 
of  a  sage,  the  Ji*e  and  death  of  Jesus  are  wholly  divine  " 


Recollections  of  Josiah  Quincy,  Jun. — J.  QUIJTCY. 

BY  the  lapse  of  half  a  century,  the  actors  in  the  scenes 
immediately  preceding  the  American  revolution  begin  to 
be  placed  in  a  light,  and  at  a  listance,  favourable  at  once 
to  right  feelings  and  just  criticism.  In  the  possession  of 
freedom,  happiness,  and  prosperity,  seldom  if  ever  before 
equalled  in  the  history  cf  nations,  the  hearts  of  the  Amer 
ican  people  naturally  turn  towards  the  memories  of  those, 
who,  under  Providence,  were  the  instruments  of  obtaining 
these  blessings.  Curiosity  awakens  concerning  their  char 
acters  and  motives.  The  desire  grows  daily  more  univer 
sal  to  repay,  with  a  late  and  distant  gratitude,  their  long 
neglected  and  often  forgotten  sacrifices  and  sufferings. 

Among  the  men,  whose  character  and  political  conduct 
had  an  acknowledged  influence  on  the  events  of  that  peri 
od,  was  Josiah  Quincy,  Jun.  The  unanimous  consent  of 
his  contemporaries  has  associated  his  name  in  an  imperish 
able  union  with  that  of  Otis,  Adams,  Hancock,  Warren, 
and  other  distinguished  men,  whose  talents  and  intrepidity 
influenced  the  events  which  led  to  the  declaration  of  inde 
pendence.  This  honour  has  been  granted  to  him,  notwith 
standing  his  political  path  was,  in  every  period  of  its  short 
extent,  interrupted  by  intense  professional  labours,  and 
was  terminated  by  death  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-one 
years. 

The  particular  features  of  a  life  and  character,  capable, 
under  such  circumstances, of  attaining  so  grea"t  a  distinction, 
are  objects  of  curiosity  and  interest.  Those,  who  recollect 
him,  speak  of  his  eloquence,  his  genius,  and  his  capicity 
for  ntellectual  labour ;  of  the  inextinguishable  zeal  and 
absorbing  ardour  of  his  exertions,  whether  directed  to  po- 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF    PROSE  451 

litical  or  professional  objects ;  of  the  entireness  with  which 
he  threw  his  soul  into  every  cause  in  which  he  engaged  ; 
of  the  intrepidity  of  his  spirit,  and  of  his  indignant  sense 
of  the  wrongs  of  his  country. 

It  is  certain  that  he  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  con 
temporaries.  Those  who  remember  the  political  debates 
in  Faneuil  Hall  consequent  on  the  stamp  act,  the  Boston 
massacre,  and  the  Boston  port  bill,  have  yet  a  vivid  recol 
lection  of  the  pathos  of  his  eloquence,  the  boldness  of  his 
invectives,  and  the  impressive  vehemence  with  which  he 
arraigned  the  measures  of  the  British  ministry,  inflaming 
the  zeal  and  animating  the  resentment  of  an  oppressed 
people. 


The  true  Pride  of  Ancestry. — WEBSTER. 

IT  is  a  noble  faculty  of  our  nature,  which  enables  us  to 
connect  our  thoughts,  our  sympathies,  and  our  happiness, 
with  what  is  distant  in  place  or  time  ;  and,  looking  before 
and  after,  to  hold  communion  at  once  with  our  ancestors  and 
our  posterity.  Human  and  mortal  although  we  are,  we  are, 
nevertheless,  not  mere  insulated  beings,  without  relation  to 
the  past  or  the  future.  Neither  the  point  of  time  nor  the  spot 
of  earth,  in  which  we  physically  live,  bounds  our  rational 
and  intellectual  enjoyments.  We  live  in  the  past  by  a 
knowledge  of  its  history,  and  in  the  future  by  hope  and 
anticipation.  By  ascending  to  an  association  with  our  an 
cestors  ;  by  contemplating  their  example  and  studying  their 
character;  by  partaking  their  sentiments,  and  imbibing  their 
spirit ;  by  accompanying  them  in  their  toils  ;  by  sympathiz 
ing  in  their  sufferings,  and  rejoicing  in  their  successes  and 
their  triumphs, — we  mingle  our  own  existence  with  theirs, 
and  seem  to  belong  to  their  age.  We  become  their  con 
temporaries,  live  the  lives  which  they  lived,  endure  what 
they  endured,  and  partake  in  the  rewards  which  they  en 
joyed.  And  in  like  manner,  by  running  along  the  line  of 
future  time  ;  by  contemplating  the  probable  fortunes  of 
those  who  are  coming  after  us ;  by  attempting  something 
which  may  promote  their  happiness,  and  leave  some  not 


452      COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PKOSE. 

dishonourable  memorial  of  ourselves  for  their  regard  when 
we  shall  sleep  with  the  fathers, — we  protract  our  own  earth 
ly  being,  and  seem  to  crowd  whatever  is  future,  as  well  aa 
all  that  is  past,  into  the  narrow  compass  of  our  earthly  ex 
istence.  As  it  is  not  a  vain  and  false,  but  an  exalted  an<l 
religious  imagination,  which  leads  us  to  raise  our  thoughts 
from  the  orb  which,  amidst  this  universe  of  worlds,  the 
Creator  has  given  us  to  inhabit,  and  to  send  them  with 
something  of  the  feeling  which  nature  prompts,  and  teach 
es  to  be  proper  among  children  of  the  same  Eternal  Parent, 
to  the  contemplation  of  the  myriads  of  fellow-beings,  with 
which  his  goodness  has  peopled  the  infinite  of  space  ;  so 
neither  is  it  false  or  vain  to  consider  ourselves  as  interested 
or  connected  with  our  whole  race  through  all  time ;  allied 
to  our  ancestors ;  allied  to  our  posterity ;  closely  compacted 
on  all  sides  with  others ;  oarselves  being  but  links  in  the 
great  chain  of  being,  which  begins  with  the  origin  of  our 
race,  runs  onward  through  its  successive  generations,  bind 
ing  together  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  and  ter 
minating,  at  last,  with  the  consummation  of  all  things 
earthly,  at  the  throne  of  God. 

There  may  be,  and  there  often  is,  indeed,  a  regard  for 
ancestry,  which  nourishes  only  a  weak  pride ;  as  there  is 
also  a  care  for  posterity,  which  only  disguises  an  habitual 
avarice,  or  hides  the  workings  of  a  low  and  grovelling  van 
ity.  But  there  is,  also,  a  moral  and  philosophical  respect 
for  our  ancestors,  which  elevates  the  character  and  im 
proves  the  heart.  Next  to  the  sense  of  religious  duty 
and  moral  feeling,  I  hardly  know  what  should  bear  with 
stronger  obligation  on  a  liberal  and  enlightened  mind,  than 
a  consciousness  of  alliance  with  excellence  which  is  de 
parted;  and  a  consciousness,  too,  that,  in  its  acts  and  conduct, 
and  even  in  its  sentiments,  it  may  be  actively  operating  on 
the  happiness  of  those  who  come  after  it.  Poetry  is  found 
to  have  few  stronger  conceptions,  by  which  it  would  affect 
or  overwhelm  the  mind,  than  those  in  which  it  presents 
the  moving  and  speaking  image  of  the  departed  dead  to  the 
senses  of  the  living.  This  belongs  to  poetry  only  because 
it  is  congenial  to  our  nature.  Poetry  is,  in  this  respect, 
but  the  handmaid  of  true  philosophy  and  morality.  It  deals 
with  us  as  human  beings,  naturally  reverencing  those 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OP  PROSE.  453 

whose  visible  connexion  with  this  state  of  being  is  severed 
and  who  may  yet  exercise,  we  know  not  what  sympathy  with 
ourselves ; — and  when  it  carries  us  forward,  also,  and  shows 
us  the  long-continued  result  of  all  the  good  we  do,  in  the 
prosperity  of  those  who  follow  us,  till  it  bears  us  from  our- 
se!ves,  and  absorbs  us  in  an  intense  interest  for  what  shall 
happen  to  the  generations  after  us,  it  speaks  only  in  the 
language  of  our  nature,  and  affects  us  with  sentiments 
which  belong  to  us  as  human  beings. 


A  Slide  in  the  White  Mountains. — MRS.  HALE. 

ROBERT  looked  upward.  Awful  precipices,  to  the  height 
of  more  than  two  thousand  feet,  rose  above  him.  Near 
the  highest  pinnacle,  and  the  very  one  over  which  Abamo- 
cho  had  been  seated,  the  earth  had  been  loosened  by  the 
violent  rains.  Some  slight  cause,  perhaps  the  sudden  burst 
ing  forth  of  a  mountain  spring,  had  given  motion  to  the  mass; 
and  it  was  now  moving  forward,  gathering  fresh  strength 
from  its  progress,  uprooting  the  old  trees,  unbedding  the 
ancient  rocks,  and  all  rolling  onwards  with  a  force  and  ve 
locity  no  human  barrier  could  oppose,  no  created  power 
resist.  One  glance  told  Robert  that  Mary  must  perish  ; 
that  he  could  not  save  her.  "  But  I  will  die  with  her  !"  he 
exclaimed  ;  and,  shaking  off  the  grasp  of  Mendowit  as  he 
would  a  feather,  "  Mary,  oh,  Mary !"  he  continued,  rushing 
towards  her.  She  uncovered  her  head,  made  an  effort  to 
rise,  and  articulated,  "  Robert !"  as  he  caught  and  clasped 
her  to  his  bosom.  "  Oh,  Mary,  must  we  die  ?"  he  exclaimed. 
"  We  must,  we  must,"  she  cried,  as  she  gazed  on  the 
rolling  mountain  in  agonizing  horror ;  "  why,  why  did  you 
come  ?"  He  replied  not ;  but,  leaning  against  the  rock, 
pressed  her  closer  to  his  heart ;  while  she,  clinging  around 
his  neck,  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and,  laying  her  head 
on  his  bosom,  sobbed  like  an  infant.  He  bowed  his  face 
upon  her  cold,  wet  cheek,  and  breathed  one  cry  for  mercy ; 
yet,  even  then,  there  was  in  the  hearts  of  both  lovers  a 
feeling  of  wild  joy  in  the  thought  that  they  should  not  b« 
separated. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    PROSE. 

The  mass  came  down,  tearing,  and  crumbling,  and  sweep 
ing  all  before  it  !  The  whole  mountain  trembled,  and  the 
ground  shook  like  an  earthquake.  The  air  was  darkened  by 
the  shower  of  water,  stones,  and  branches  of  trees,  crushed 
and  shivered  to  atoms ,  while  the  blast  swept  by  like  a 
whirlwind,  and  the  crash  and  roar  of  the  convulsion  were 
far  more  appalling  than  the  loudest  thunder. 

It  might  have  been  one  minute,  or  twenty, — for  neither 
of  the  lovers  took  note  of  time, — when,  in  the  hush  as  of 
deathlike  stillness  that  succeeded  the  uproar,  Robert  looked 
around,  and  saw  the  consuming  storm  had  passed  by.  It  had 
passed,  covering  the  valley,  farther  than  the  eye  could 
reach,  with  ruin.  Masses  of  granite,  and  shivered  trees, 
and  mountain  earth,  were  heaped  higli  around,  filling  the 
bed  of  the  Saco,  and  exhibiting  an  awful  picture  of  the  des 
olating  track  of  the  avalanche.  Only  one  little  spot  had  es 
caped  its  wrath,  and  there,  safe,  as  if  sheltered  in  the  hol 
low  of  His  hand,  who  notices  the  fall  of  a  sparrow,  and 
locked  in  each  other's  arms,  were  Robert  and  Mary  !  Beside 
them  stood  Mendowit ;  his  gun  firmly  clenched,  and  his 
quick  eye  rolling  around  him  like  a  maniac.  He  had  fol 
lowed  Robert,  though  he  did  not  intend  it ;  probably  im 
pelled  by  that  feeling  which  makes  us  loath  to  face  danger 
alone  ;  and  thus  had  escaped. 


The  Twins. — TOKEN. 

DURING  the  period  of  the  war  of  the  revolution,  there 
resided,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts,  a  farmer  by 
the  name  of  Stedman.  He  was  a  man  of  substance,  de 
scended  from  a  very  respectable  English  family,  well  edu 
cated,  distinguished  for  great  firmness  of  character  in  gen 
eral,  and  alike  remarkable  for  inflexible  integrity  and  stead 
fast  loyalty  to  his  king.  Such  was  the  reputation  he  sus 
tained,  that,  even  when  the  most  violent  antipathies  against 
royalism  swayed  the  community,  it  was  still  admitted  on 
all  hands,  that  farmer  Stedman,  though  a  tory,  was  I  Dneat 
in  his  opinions,  and  firmly  believed  them  to  be  right. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  455 

The  period  came  when  Burgoyne  was  advancing  from  the 
north.  It  was  a  time  of  great  anxiety  with  both  the  friends 
and  foes  of  the  revolution,  and  one  which  called  forth  their 
highest  exertions.  The  patriotic  militia  flocked  to  the  stand 
ard  of  Gates  and  Stark,  while  many  of  the  tories  resorted 
to  the  quarters  of  Burgoyne  and  Baum.  Among  the  lat 
ter  was  Stedman.  He  had  no  sooner  decided  it  to  be  his 
duty,  than  he  took  a  kind  farewell  of  his  wife,  a  woman 
of  uncommon  beauty,  gave  his  children,  a  twin  boy  and 
girl,  a  long  embrace,  then  mounted  his  horse  and  depart 
ed.  He  joined  himself  to  the  unfortunate  expedition  of 
Baum,  and  was  taken,  with  other  prisoners  of  war,  by  the 
victorious  Stark. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  name  or  character, 
which  were  both  soon  discovered,  and  he  was  accordingly 
committed  to  prison  as  a  traitor.  The  gaol,  in  which  ho 
was  confined,  was  in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts, 
and  nearly  in  a  ruinous  condition.  The  farmer  was  one 
night  waked  from  his  sleep  by  several  persons  in  his  room 
"  Come,"  said  they,  "  you  can  now  regain  your  liberty  ; 
we  have  made  a  breach  in  the  prison,  through  which  you 
can  escape."  To  their  astonishment,  Stedman  utterly 
refused  to  leave  his  prison.  In  vain  they  expostulated 
with  him  ;  in  vain  they  represented  to  him  that  life  was 
.  at  stake.  His  reply  was,  that  he  was  a  true  man,  and  a 
servant  of  king  George,  and  he  would  not  creep  out  of  a 
hole  at  night,  and  sneak  away  from  the  rebels,  to  save  his 
neck  from  the  gallows.  Finding  it  altogether  fruitless  to 
attempt  to  move  him,  his  friends  left  him,  with  some  ex 
pressions  of  spleen. 

The  time  at  length  arrived  for  the  trial  of  the  prisoner. 
The  distance  to  the  place  where  the  court  was  sitting  was 
about  sixty  miles.  Stedman  remarked  to  the  sheriff,  when 
he  came  to  attend  him,  that  it  would  save  some  expense 
and  inconvenience,  if  he  could  be  permitted  to  go  alone, 
and  on  foot.  "  And  suppose,"  said  the  sheriff,  "  that  you 
should  prefer  your  safety  to  your  honour,  and  leave  me  to 
seek  you  in  the  British  camp  ?"  "  I  had  thought,"  said 
the  farmer,  reddening  with  indignation,  "  that  I  was  speak 
ing  to  one  who  knew  me."  "  I  do  know  you,  indeed," 
said  the  sheriff;  "  I  spoke  but  in  jest ;  you  shall  have 


456  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

your  way.  Go,  and  on  the  third  day  I  shall  expect  to  see 

you  at  S ."  *  *  *  *  The  farmer  departed,  and 

at  the  appointed  time  he  placed  himself  in  the  hands  of  the 
sheriff. 

I  was  now  engaged  as  his  counsel.  Stedman  insisted, 
before  the  court,  upon  telling  his  whole  story ;  and,  when 
I  would  have  taken  advantage  of  some  technical  points,  he 
sharply  rebuked  me,  and  told  me  that  he  had  not  employed 
me  to  prevaricate,  but  only  to  assist  him  in  telling  the  truth. 
I  had  never  seen  such  a  display  of  simple  integrity.  It  was 
affecting  to  witness  his  love  of  holy,  unvarnished  truth,  el 
evating  him  above  every  other  consideration,  and  presiding 
in  his  breast  as  a  sentiment  even  superior  to  the  love  of  life. 
I  saw  the  tears  more  than  once  springing  to  the  eyes  of  his 
judges  ;  never  before,  or  since,  have  I  felt  such  an  interest 
in  a  client.  I  plead  for  him  as  I  would  have  plead  for  my 
own  life.  I  drew  tears,  but  I  could  net  sway  the  judgment 
of  stern  men,  controlled  rather  by  a  sense  of  duty  than  the 
compassionate  promptings  of  humanity.  Stedman  was  con 
demned.  I  told  him  there  was  a  chance  of  pardon,  if  he 
would  ask  for  it.  I  drew  up  a  petition,  and  requested  him 
to  sign  it ;  but  he  refused.  "  I  have  done,"  said  he,  "  what 
I  thought  my  duty.  I  can  ask  pardon  of  my  God,  and  my 
king  ;  but  it  would  be  hypocrisy  to  ask  forgiveness  of  these 
men,  for  an  action  which  I  should  repeat,  were  I  placed 
again  in  similar  circumstances.  No !  ask  me  not  to  sign 
that  petition.  If  what  you  call  the  cause  of  American 
freedom  requires  the  blood  of  an  honest  man  for  a  consci 
entious  discharge  of  what  he  deemed  his  duty,  let  me  be 
its  victim.  Go  to  my  judges,  and  tell  them  that  I  place 
not  my  fears  nor  my  hopes  in  them."  It  was  in  viin  that 
I  pressed  the  subject ;  and  I  went  away  in  despair. 

In  returning  to  my  house,  I  accidentally  called  on  an 
acquaintance,  a  young  man  of  brilliant  genius,  the  subject 
of  a  passionate  predilection  for  painting.  This  led  him  fre 
quently  to  take  excursions  into  the  country,  for  the  purpose 
of  sketching  such  objects  and  scenes  as  were  interesting  to 
him.  From  one  of  these  rambles  he  had  just  returned.  I 
found  him  sitting  at  his  easel,  giving  the  last  touches  to  the 
picture  which  attracted  your  attention.  He  asked  my 
opinion  of  it.  "  It  is  a  fine  picture,"  said  I ;  "  is  it  a  fancy 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE.  457 

piece,  or  are  they  portraits  ?"  "  They  are  portraits,"  said 
he  ;  "  and,  save  perhaps  a  little  embellishment,  they  are,  I 
think,  striking  portraits  of  the  wife  and  children  of  you! 
unfortunate  client,  Stedman.  In  the  course  of  my  rambles, 

I  chanced  to  call  at  his  house  in  H .     I  never  saw  a 

more  beautiful  group.  The  mother  is  one  of  a  thousand  ; 
and  the  twins  are  a  pair  of  cherubs."  "  Tell  me,"  said  I, 
laying  my  hand  on  the  picture,  "  tell  me,  are  they  true  s.nd 
faithful  portraits  of  the  wife  and  children  of  Stedman  ?" 
My  earnestness  made  my  friend  stare.  He  assured  me  that, 
so  far  as  he  could  be  permitted  to  judge  of  his  own  produc 
tions,  they  were  striking  representations.  I  asked  no  further 
questions  ;  I  seized  the  picture,  and  hurried  with  it  to  the 
prison  where  my  client  was  confined.  I  found  him  sitting, 
his  face  covered  with  his  hands,  and  apparently  wrung  by 
keen  emotion.  I  placed  the  picture  in  such  a  situation  that 
he  could  not  fail  to  see  it  I  laid  the  petition  on  the  little 
table  by  his  side,  and  left  the  room. 

In  half  an  hour  I  returned.  The  farmer  grasped  my  hand, 
while  tears  stole  down  his  cheeks ;  his  eye  glanced  first  upon 
the  picture,  and  then  to  the  petition.  He  said  nothing,  but 
handed  the  latter  to  me.  I  took  it,  and  left  the  apartment. 
He  had  put  his  name  to  it.  The  petition  was  granted,  and 
Stedman  was  set  at  liberty. 


The  lone  Indian. — Miss  FRANCIS. 

FOR  many  a  returning  autumn,  a  lone  Indian  was  seen 
standing  at  the  consecrated  spot  we  have  mentioned  ;  but, 
just  thirty  years  after  the  death  of  Soonseetah,  he  was 
noticed  for  the  last  time.  His  step  was  then  firm,  and  his 
figure  erect,  though  he  se«med  old  and  way-worn.  Age 
had  not  dimmed  the  fire  of  his  eye,  but  an  expression  of 
deep  melancholy  had  settled  on  his  wrinkled  brow.  It  was 
Powontoiiamo — he  who  had  once  been  the  Eagle  of  the 
Mohawks !  He  came  to  He  down  and  die  beneath  the  broad 
oak,  which  shadowed  the  grave  of  Sunny-eye.  Alas,  the 
white  man's  axe  had  been  there  !  The  tree  he  had  planted 
tvas  dead  ;  and  the  vine,  which  had  leaped  so  vigorously 
39 


458  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   PROSE. 

from  branch  to  branch,  now,  yellow  and  withering,  WM 
falling  to  the  ground.  A  deep  groan  burst  from  the  soul  of 
the  savage.  For  thirty  wearisome  years,  he  had  watched 
that  oak,  with  its  twining  tendrils.  They  were  the  only 
things  left  in  the  wide  world  for  him  to  love,  and  they  were 
gone !  He  looked  abroad.  The  hunting  land  of  his  tribe 
was  changed,  like  its  chieftain.  No  light  canoe  now  shot 
down  the  river,  like  a  bird  upon  the  wing.  The  laden  boat 
of  the  white  man  alone  broke  its  smooth  surface.  The 
Englishman's  road  wound  like  a  serpent  around  the  banks 
of  the  Mohawk  ;  and  iron  hoofs  had  so  beaten  down  the 
war  path,  that  a  hawk's  eye  could  not  discover  an  Indian 
track.  The  last  wigwam  was  destroyed ;  and  the  sun 
looked  boldly  down  upon  spots  he  had  visited  only  by 
stealth,  during  thousands  and  thousands  of  moons.  The 
few  remaining  trees,  clothed  in  the  fantastic  mourning  of 
autumn ;  the  long  line  of  heavy  clouds,  melting  away  before 
the  coming  sun  ;  and  the  distant  mountain,  seen  through  the 
blue  mist  of  departing  twilight,  alone  remained  as  he  had 
seen  them  in  his  boyhood.  All  things  spoke  a  sad  language 
to  the  heart  of  the  desolate  Indian.  "  Yes,"  said  he,  "  the 
young  oak  and  the  vine  are  like  the  Eagle  and  the  Sunny- 
eye.  They  are  cut  down,  torn,  and  trampled  on.  The 
leaves  are  falling,  and  the  clouds  are  scattering,  like  my 
people.  I  wish  I  could  once  more  see  the  trees  standing 
thick,  as  they  did  when  my  mother  held  me  to  her  bosom, 
and  sung  the  warlike  deeds  of  the  Mohawks." 

A  mingled  expression  of  grief  and  anger  passed  over  his 
face,  as  he  watched  a  loaded  boat  in  its  passage  across  the 
stream.  "  The  white  man  carries  food  to  his  wife  and  chil 
dren,  and  he  finds  them  in  his  home,"  said  he.  "  Where  13 
the  squaw  and  the  pappoose  of  the  red  man  ?  They  are 
here  !"  As  he  spoke,  he  fixed  his  eye  thoughtfully  upon 
the  grave.  After  a  gloomy  silence,  he  again  looked  round 
upon  the  fair  scene,  with  a  wandering  and  troubled  gaze. 
"  The  pale  face  may  like  it,"  murmured  he ;  "  but  an  In 
dian  cannot  die  here  in  peace."  So  saying,  he  broke  hij 
bow-string,  snapped  his  arrows,  threw  them  on  the  burial- 
place  of  his  fathers,  and  departed  for  ever. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE,.  159 


Jl  Scene  in  the  Catskill  Mountains. — G.  MEI.I.EN. 

WE  first  came  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  from  which 
the  water  takes  its  leap  upon  a  platform  that  projects  with 
the  rock  many  feet  over  the  chasm.  Here  we  gazed  into 
the  dell  and  the  basin  into  which  the  stream  pours  itself 
from  the  beetling  cliff.  But  the  prospect  from  this  point 
is  far  less  thrilling  than  from  below  ;  and  we  accordingly 
began  our  descent.  Winding  round  the  crags,  and  following 
a  foot-path  between  the  overhanging  trees,  we  gradually, 
and  with  some  difficulty,  descended  so  far  as  to  have  a  fine 
view  of  the  station  which  we  had  just  left.  The  scene 
here  is  magnificent  beyond  description.  Far  under  the 
blackened  canopy  of  everlasting  rock,  that  shoots  above  to 
an  alarming  extent  over  the  abyss,  the  eye  glances  round 
a  vast  and  regular  amphitheatre,  which  seems  to  be  the 
wild  assembling-place  of  all  the  spirits  of  the  storms, — so 
rugged,  so  deep,  so  secluded,  and  yet  so  threatening  does 
it  appear  !  Down  from  the  midst  of  the  cliff  that  over 
arches  this  wonderful  excavation,  and  dividing  in  the  midst 
the  gloom  that  seems  to  settle  within  it,  comes  the  foaming 
torrent,  splendidly  relieved  upon  the  black  surface  of  the 
enduring  walls,  and  throwing  its  wreaths  of  mist  along  the 
frowning  ceiling.  Following  the  guide  that  had  brought 
us  thus  far  down  the  chasm,  we  passed  into  the  amphithe 
atre,  and,  moving  under  the  terrific  projection,  stood  in  the 
centre  of  this  sublime  and  stupendous  work  ; — the  black, 
ironbound  rocks  behind  us,  and  the  snowy  cataract  spring 
ing  between  us  and  the  boiling  basin,  which  still  lay  under 
our  feet.  Here  the  scene  was  unparalleled.  Here  seem 
ed  to  be  the  theatre  for  a  people  to  stand  in,  aud  behold  the 
prodigies  and  fearful  wonders  of  the  Almighty,  and  feel 
their  own  insignificance.  Here  admiration  and  astonish 
ment  come  unbidden  over  the  soul,  and  the  most  obdurate 
heart  feels  that  there  is  something  to  be  grateful  for.  In 
deed,  the  scene  from  this  spot  is  so  sublime  and  so  well  cal 
culated  to  impress  the  feelings  with  a  sense  of  the  power 
and  grandeur  of  nature,  that,  apart  from  all  other  consid 
erations,  it  is  worthy  of  long  journeying  and  extreme  toil 
to  behold  it.  Having  taken  refreshment,  very  adroitly  man- 


460  COMMON-PLACE  BOOR  OF  PROSE. 

aged  to  be  conveyed  to  us  from  above  by  John, — whom, 
by  the  way,  I  would  name  as  an  excellent  guide  as 
well  as  a  reputable  boy, — we  descended  to  the  extreme 
depth  of  the  ravine,  and,  with  certain  heroic  ladies,  who 
somehow  dared  tbe  perils  of  the  path,  we  gazed  from  this 
place  upon  the  sheet  of  water,  falling  from  a  height  of  more 
than  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet.  This  is  a  matter  of  which 
Niagara  would  not  speak  lightly ;  and  there  is  wanting 
only  a  heavy  fall  of  water  to  make  this  spot  not  only  mag 
nificent, — for  that  it  is  now, — but  terribly  sublime.  Moun 
tains  ascend  and  overshadow  it ;  crags  and  precipices  pro 
ject  themselves  in  menacing  assemblage  all  about,  as  though 
frowning  over  a  ruin  which  they  are  only  waiting  some 
fiat  to  make  yet  more  appalling.  Nature  has  hewed  out  a 
resting  place  for  man,  where  he  may  linger,  and  gaze,  and 
admire  !  Below  him  she  awakens  her  thunder,  and  darts 
her  lightning ;  above  him  she  lifts  still  loftier  summits,  and 
round  him  she  flings  her  spray  and  her  rainbows  ' 


The  St.  Lawrence. — N   P.  WILLIS. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  night.  The  light  lay  sleeping  on 
the  St.  Lawrence  like  a  white  mist.  The  boat,  on  whose 
deck  our  acquaintances  were  promenading,  was  threading 
the  serpentine  channel  of  the  "  Thousand  Isles,"  more  like 
winding  through  a  wilderness  than  following  the  passage 
of  a  great  river.  The  many  thousand  islands  clustered  in 
this  part  of  the  St.  Lawrence  seem  to  realize  the  mad  girl's 
dream  when  she  visited  the  stars,  and  found  them 

"  Only  green  islands,  sown  thick  in  the  sky." 

Nothing  can  be  more  like  fairy  land  than  sailing  among 
them  on  a  summer's  evening.     They  vary  in  size,  from  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  circumference,  to  a  spot  just  large 
enough    for   one    solitary  tree,  and  are    at  different   dis 
tances,  from  a  bowshot  to  a  gallant  leap,  from  each  other 
The  universal  formation  is  a  rock,  of  horizontal  stratum ; 
and  the  river,  though  spread  into  a  lake  by  Innumerable 
divisions,  is  almost  embowered  by  the  luxuriant  vegetation 


COMMON-PLACE   BOOK  OF  PROSE.  461 

which  covers  them.  There  is  every  where  sufficient  depth 
for  the  boat  to  run  directly  alongside ;  and  with  the  rapid 
ity  and  quietness  of  her  motion,  and  the  near  neighbour 
hood  of  the  trees  which  may  almost  be  touched,  the  illusion 
of  aerial  carriage  over  land  is,  at  first,  almost  perfect.  The 
passage  through  the  more  intricate  parts  of  the  channel 
is,  ir  possible,  still  more  beautiful.  You  shoot  into  narrow 
passes,  where  you  could  spring  on  shore  on  either  side, 
catching,  as  you  advance,  hasty  views  to  the  right  and  left, 
through  long  vistas  of  islands,  or,  running  round  a  project 
ing  point  of  rock  or  woodland,  open  into  an  apparent  lake, 
and,  darting  rapidly  across,  seem  running  right  on  shore  as 
you  enter  a  narrow  strait  in  pursuit  of  the  channel. 

It  is  the  finest  ground  in  the  world  for  the  "  magic  of 
moonlight."  The  water  is  clear,  and,  on  the  night  we 
speak  of,  was  a  perfect  mirror.  Every  star  was  repeated. 
The  foliage  of  the  islands  was  softened  into  indistinctness, 
and  they'  lay  in  the  water,  with  their  well  defined  shadows 
hanging  darkly  beneath  them,  as  distinctly  as  clouds  in  the 
sky,  and  apparently  as  moveable.  In  more  terrestrial  com 
pany  than  the  lady  Viola's,  our  hero  might  have  fan 
cied  himself  in  the  regions  of  upper  air  ;  but,  as  he  leaned 
over  the  taffrail,  and  listened  to  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever 
melted  into  moonlight,  and  watched  the  shadows  of  the 
dipping  trees  as  the  approach  of  the  boat  broke  them,  one 
by  one,  he  would  have  thought  twice  before  he  had  said 
that  he  was  sailing  on  a  fresh  water  river  in  the  good  steam 
bjat  "  Queenston." 


"  I  have  seen  an  End  of  all  Perfection." — 
Mas.  SIGOURNEY. 

I  HAVE  seen  a  man  in  the  glory  of  his  days  and  the 
pride  of  his  strength.  He  was  built  like  the  tall  cedar  that 
lifts  its  head  above  the  forest  trees  ;  like  the  strong  oak  that 
strikes  its  root  deeply  into  the  earth.  He  feared  no  dan 
ger  ;  he  felt  no  sickness ;  he  wondered  that  any  should 
groan  or  sigh  at  pain.  His  mind  was  vigorous,  like  his 
body :  he  was  perplexed  at  no  intricacy ;  he  was  daunted  ai 
39* 


tG2  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

no  difficulty ;  into  hidden  things  he  searched,  and  what 
was  crooked  he  made  plain.  He  went  forth  fearlessly  upon 
tue  face  of  the  mighty  deep ;  he  surveyed  the  nations  of 
the  earth ;  he  measured  the  distances  of  the  stars,  and  call 
ed  them  by  their  names ;  he  gloried  in  the  extent  of  his 
knowledge,  in  the  vigour  of  his  understanding,  and  strove 
to  search  even  into  what  the  Almighty  had  concealed.  And 
when  I  looked  on  him  I  said,  "  What  a  piece  of  work  is 
man  !  how  noble  in  reason !  how  infinite  in  faculties !  in 
form  and  moving  how  express  and  admirable  '  in  action 
how  like  an  angel!  in  apprehension  how  like  a  God!" 

I  returned — his  look  was  no  more  lofty,  nor  his  step 
proud ;  his  broken  frame  was  like  some  ruined  tower ;  his 
hairs  were  white  and  scattered  ;  and  his  eye  gazed  vacant 
ly  upon  what  was  passing  around  him.  The  vigour  of  his 
intellect  was  wasted,  and  of  all  that  he  had  gained  by  study, 
nothing  remained.  He  feared  when  there  was  no  danger, 
and  when  there  was  no  sorrow  he  wept.  His  memory  was 
decayed  and  treacherous,  and  showed  him  only  broken  im 
ages  of  the  glory  that  was  departed.  His  house  was  to  him 
like  a  strange  land,  and  his  friends  were  counted  as  his  ene 
mies  ;  and  he  thought  himself  strong  and  healthful  while 
his  foot  tottered  on  the  verge  of  the  grave.  He  said  of  his 
son — "  He  is  my  brother;"  of  his  daughter,  "I  know  her 
not ;"  and  he  inquired  what  was  his  own  name.  And  one 
who  supported  his  last  steps,  and  ministered  to  his  many 
wants,  said  to  me,  as  I  looked  on  the  melancholy  scene, 
"  Let  thine  heart  receive  instruction,  for  thou  hast  seen  an 
end  of  all  earthly  perfection." 

I  have  seen  a  beautiful  female  treading  the  first  stages 
of  youth,  and  entering  joyfully  into  the  pleasures  of  life. 
The  glance  of  her  eye  was  variable  and  sweet,  and  on 
her  cheek  trembled  something  like  the  first  blush  of  the 
morning ;  her  lips  moved,  and  there  was  harmony  ;  and 
when  she  floated  in  the  dance,  her  light  form,  like 
the  aspen,  seemed  to  move  with  every  breeze.  I  re 
turned, — but  she  was  not  in  the  dance ;  I  sought  her 
in  the  gay  circle  of  her  companions,  but  I  found  her 
not.  Her  eye  sparkled  not  there — the  music  of  her  voice 
was  silent — she  rejoiced  on  earth  no  more.  I  saw  a  train, 
sable  and  slow-paced,  who  bore  sadly  to  an  opened  grave 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK   OF  PROSt.  463 

what  once  was  animated  and  beautiful.  They  paused  as 
they  approached,  and  a  voice  broke  the  awful  silence  : 
"  Mingle  ashes  with  ashes,  and  dust  with  its  original  dust. 
To  the  earth,  whence  it  was  taken,  consign  we  the  body 
of  our  sister."  They  covered  her  with  the  damp  soil  and 
the  cold  clods  of  the  valley ;  and  the  worms  crowded  into 
her  silent  abode.  Yet  one  sad  mourner  lingered,  to  cast 
himself  upon  the  grave  ;  and  as  he  wept  he  said,  "  There  is 
no  beauty,  or  grace,  or  loveliness,  that  continueth  in  man ; 
for  this  is  the  end  of  all  his  glory  and  perfection." 

I  have  seen  an  infant  with  a  fair  brow,  and  a  frame  like 
polished  ivory.  Its  limbs  were  pliant  in  its  sports  ;  it  re 
joiced,  and  again  it  wept;  but  whether  its  glowing  cheek 
dimpled  with  smiles,  or  its  blue  eye  was  brilliant  with 
tears,  still  I  said  to  my  heart,  "  It  is  beautiful."  It  was 
like  the  first  pure  blossom,  which  some  cherished  plant  has 
shot  forth,  whose  cup  is  filled  with  a  dew-drop,  and  whose 
head  reclines  upon  its  parent  stem. 

I  again  saw  this  child  when  the  lamp  of  reason  first 
dawned  in  its  mind.  Its  soul  was  gentle  and  peaceful ;  its 
eye  sparkled  with  joy,  as  it  looked  round  on  this  good  and 
pleasant  world,  it  ran  swiftly  in  the  ways  of  knowledge  ; 
it  bowed  its  ear  to  instruction ;  it  stood  like  a  lamb  before 
its  teachers.  It  was  not  proud,  or  envious,  or  stubborn  ;  and 
it  had  never  heard  of  the  vices  and  vanities  of  the  world. 
And  when  I  looked  upon  it,  I  remembered  that  our  Saviour 
had  said,  "  Except  ye  become  as  little  children,  ye  cannot 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

But  the  scene  was  changed,  and  I  saw  a  man  whom  the 
world  called  honourable,  and  many  waited  for  his  smile. 
They  pointed  out  the  fields  that  were  his,  and  talked  of 
the  silver  and  gold  that  he  had  gathered ;  they  admired 
the  stateliness  of  his  domes,  and  extolled  the  honour  of 
las  family.  And  his  heart  answered  secretly,  "  By  my 
wisdom  have  I  gotten  all  this ;"  so  he  returned  no  thanks 
tc  God,  neither  did  he  fear  or  serve  him.  And  as  I  passed 
along,  I  heard  the  complaints  of  the  labourers  who  had  reap 
ed  down  his  fields,  and  the  cries  of  the  poor,  whose  covering 
he  had  taken  away;  but  the  sound  of  feasting  and  revelry 
was  in  his  apartments,  and  the  unfed  beggar  came  totter 
ing  from  his  door.  But  he  considered  not  that  the  cries 


~i 


164  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK.  OF  PROSE. 

of  the  oppressed  were  continually  entering  into  the  eari 
of  the  Most  High.  And  when  I  knew  that  this  man  was 
once  the  teachable  child  that  I  had  loved,  the  beautiful 
in/ant  that  I  had  gazed  upon  with  delight,  I  said  in  my 
bitterness,  "  I  have  seen  an  end  of  all  perfection ;"  and  I 
laid  my  mouth  in  the  dust. 


Neatness. — DENNIE.       : 

"  Let  thy  garments  be  always  white,  and  let  thy  head  lack  no 
ornament." 

THOUGH  much  occupied  in  preaching,  and  noted,  as 
some  of  my  friends  say,  for  a  certain  poetical  heedlessness 
of  character,  yet,  at  least  every  Sunday,  if  not  oftener,  I 
copy  the  common  custom,  and  invest  my  little  person  in 
clean  array.  As,  from  a  variety  of  motives,  and  none  of 
them,  I  hope,  bad  ones,  I  go  with  some  degree  of  con 
stancy  to  church,  I  choose  to  appear  there  decently  and 
in  order.  However  inattentive  through  the  week,  on  that 
solemn  day  I  brush  with  more  than  ordinary  pains  my  best 
coat,  am  watchful  of  the  purity  of  my  linen,  and  adjust 
my  cravat  with  an  old  bachelor's  nicety. 

While  I  was  lately  busied  at  my  toilet  in  the  work  of 
personal  decoration,  it  popped  into  my  head  that  a  sermon  in 
praise  of  neatness  would  do  good  service,  if  not  to  the  world 
at  large,  at  least  to  many  of  my  reading,  writing  and  think 
ing  brethren,  who  make  their  assiduous  homage  to  mind  a 
j  retext  for  negligence  of  person. 

Among  the  minor  virtues,  cleanliness  ought  to  be  con 
spicuously  ranked  ;  and  in  the  common  topics  of  praise  we 
generally  arrange  some  commendation  of  neatness.  It 
involves  much.  It  supposes  a  love  of  order,  and  attention 
to  the  laws  of  custom,  and  a  decent  pnde.  My  lord  Bacon 
says;  that  a  good  person  is  a  perpetual  letter  of  recommen 
dation.  This  idea  may  be  extended.  Of  a  well  dressed  maa 
it  may  be  affirmed,  that  he  has  a  sure  passport  through  the 
realms  of  civility.  In  first  interviews  we  can  judge  of  no 
one  except  from  appearances.  He,  therefore,  whose  ex 
terior  is  agreeable,  begins  well  in  any  society.  Men  and 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  465 

Women  are  disposed  to  augur  favourably  rather  than  other 
wise  of  him  who  manifests,  by  the  purity  and  propriety  of 
his  garb,  a  disposition  to  comply  and  to  please.  As  in 
rhetoric  a  judicious  exordium  is  of  admirable  use  to  ren 
der  an  audience  docile,  attentive  and  benevolent,  so,  at 
our  introduction  into  good  company,  clean  and  modish 
apparel  is  at  least  a  serviceable  herald  of  our  exertions, 
though  an  humble  one. 

As  these  are  very  obvious  truths,  and  as  literary  men 
are  generally  vain,  and  sometimes  proud,  it  is  singular 
that  one  of  the  easiest  modes  of  gratifying  self-compla 
cency  should  by  them  be,  for  the  most  part,  neglected  ;  and 
that  this  sort  of  carelessness  is  so  adhesive  to  one  tribe  of 
writers,  that  the  words  poet  and  sloven  are  regarded  as 
synonymous  in  the  world's  vocabulary. 

This  negligence  in  men  of  letters  sometimes  arises  from 
their  inordinate  application  to  books  and  papers,  and  may 
be  palliated,  by  a  good-natured  man,  as  the  natural  pro 
duct  of  a  mind  too  intensely  engaged  in  sublime  specula 
tions,  to  attend  to  the  blackness  of  a  shoe  or  the  whiteness 
of  a  ruffle.  Mr.  Locke  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton  might  be 
forgiven  by  their  candid  contemporaries,  though  the  first 
had  composed  his  Essay  with  unwashen  hands,  and  the 
second  had  investigated  the  laws  of  nature  when  he  was 
clad  in  a  soiled  night-gown.  But  slovenliness  is  often 
affected  by  authors,  or  rather  pretenders  to  authorship, 
and  must  then  be  considered  as  highly  culpable ;  as  an 
outrage  of  decorum ;  as  a  defiance  to  the  world ;  as  a 
pitiful  scheme  to  attract  notice,  by  means  which  are  equal 
ly  in  the  power  of  the  drayman  and  the  chimney  sweeper. 
I  know  a  poet  of  this  description,  who  anticipates  renown 
no  less  from  a  dirty  shirt  than  from  an  elegant  couplet,  and 
imagines  that,  when  his  appearance  is  the  most  sordid,  the 
world  must  conclude,  of  course,  that  his  mind  is  splendid 
and  fair.  In  his  opinion  "  marvellous  foul  linen"  is  a 
token  of  wit,  and  inky  fingers  indicate  humour ;  he  avers 
that  a  slouched  hat  is  demonstrative  of  a  well  stored  brain, 
and  that  genius  always  trudges  about  in  unbuckled  shoes 
He  looks  for  invention  in  rumpled  ruffles,  and  finds  high- 
sounding  poetry  among  the  folds  of  a  loose  stocking. 


166  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE. 

Slovenliness,  so  far  from  being  commendable  in  an 
author,  is  more  inexcusable  in  men  of  letters  than  in  many 
others,  the  nature  of  whose  employment  compels  them  to 
be  conversant  with  objects  sordid  and  impure.  A  .-mith 
from  his  forge,  or  a  husbandman  from  his  field,  is  obliged 
sometimes  to  appear  stained  with  the  smut  of  the  one  or 
the  dust  of  the  other.  A  writer,  on  the  contrary,  sitting 
in  an  easy  chair  at  a  polished  desk,  and  leaning  on  white 
paper,  or  examining  the  pages  of  a  book,  is  by  no  means 
obliged  to  be  soiled  by  his  labours.  I  see  no  reason  why 
an  author  should  not  be  a  gentleman ;  Or  at  least  as  clean 
and  neat  as  a  Quaker.  Far  from  thinking  that  filthy  dress 
marks  a  liberal  mind,  I  should  suspect  the  good  sense 
and  talents  of  him,  who  affected  to  wear  a  tattered  coat  as 
the  badge  of  his  profession.  Should  I  see  a  reputed 
genius  totally  regardless  of  his  person,  I  should  immedi 
ately  doubt  the  delicacy  of  his  taste  and  the  accuracy  of  his 
judgment.  I  should  conclude  there  was  some  obliquity 
in  his  mind — a  dull  sense  of  decorum,  and  a  disregard  of 
order.  I  should  fancy  that  he  consorted  with  low  society ; 
and,  instead  of  claiming  the  privilege  of  genius  to  knock 
and  be  admitted  at  palaces,  that  he  chose  to  sneak  in  at  the 
back  door  of  hovels,  and  wallow  brutishly  in  the  sty  of  the 
vulgar. 

The  orientals  are  careful  of  their  persons  with  much 
care.  Their  frequent  ablutions  and  change  of  garments 
are  noticed  in  every  page  of  their  history.  My  text  is 
not  the  only  precept  of  neatness,  that  can  be  quoted  from 
the  Bible.  The  wise  men  of  the  east  supposed  there  was 
some  analogy  between  the  purity  of  the  body  and  that 
of  the  mind  ;  nor  is  this  a  vain  imagination. 

I  cannot  conclude  this  sermon  better  than  by  an  extract 
from  the  works  of  Count  Rumford,  who,  in  few  and  strong 
words,  has  fortified  my  doctrine  : 

"  With  what  care  and  attention  do  the  feathered  race 
wash  themselves,  and  put  their  plumage  in  order !  and  how 
perfectly  neat,  clean,  and  elegant,  do  they  ever  appear '. 
Among  the  beasts  of  the  field,  we  find  that  those  which 
are  the  most  cleanly  are  generally  the  most  gay  and 
cheerful,  or  are  distinguished  by  a  certain  air  of  tran 
quillity  and  contentment ;  and  singing  birds  are  always 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  PROSE.  467 

remarkable  for  the  neatness  of  their  plumage.  So  great  is 
the  effect  of  cleanliness  upon  man,  that  it  extends  even  to 
his  moral  character.  Virtue  never  dwelt  long  with  filth  ; 
nor  do  1  believe  there  ever  was  a  person  scrupulously 
attentive  to  cleanliness,  who  was  a  consummate  villain." 


Description  of  King's  College  Chapel. — SILLIMAX. 

THE  chapel  of  King's  College  is  allowed  to  be  the  most 
perfect  and  magnificent  monument  of  Gothic  architecture 
in  the  world.  Its  dimensions  are — length,  three  hundred 
and  sixteen  feet;  breadth,  eighty-four  feet;  height  of  the 
top  of  the  battlements,  ninety  feet ;  to  the  top  of  the  pin 
nacles,  one  hundred  and  one  feet ;  to  the  top  of  the  corner 
towers,  one  hundred  forty-six  and  a  half  feet.  The  inside 
dimensions  are — length,  two  hundred  and  ninety-one  feet ; 
breadth,  forty-five  and  a  half  feet;  height,  seventy-eight. 
It  is  all  in  one  room,  and  the  roof  is  arched  with  massy 
stone  ;  the  key  stones  of  the  arch  weigh  each  a  too, 
and  there  is  neither  brace,  beam,  nor  prop  of  any  kind, 
tc  support  the  roof,  all  the  stones  of  which  are  of  enor 
mous  magnitude.  Modern  architects,  and  Sir  Christopher 
Wren  among  the  number,  have  beheld  this  roof  with 
astonishment,  and  have  despaired  of  imitating  it  It  is 
reported  of  Sir  Christopher,  that  he  used  to  say,  he  wo'iJd 
engage  to  build  such  an  arch,  if  any  one  would  t>iit  st.iw 
him  where  to  place  the  first  stone. 

When  you  realize  the  magnitude  of  this  room,  the  roof 
of  which  is  sustained  entirely  by  the  walls,  buttresses  and 
towers,  you  will  say  that  it  is  a  wonderful  monument  of 
human  skill  and  power.  The  interior  is  finished  in  the 
very  finest  sb'le  of  Gothic  arcnitecture.  The  roof  is  fret 
ted  with  many  curious  devices  raised  on  the  stones,  and 
the  walls  are  adorned  with  massy  sculpture,  where  the 
figures  appear  as  if  growing  to  the  solid  structure  of  the 
building ;  for,  while  they  project  into  the  room  on  one 
side,  they  remain  on  the  other  joined  by  their  natural  con 
nexion  with  the  stones  from  which  they  were  originally 
carved.  The  windows  are  superbly  painted,  and  the  sub 


468       COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE 

jects  are  principally  from  Scripture  history.  The  panes 
of  glass  are  separated  only  by  very  narrow  frames,  and  the 
figures  painted  upon  them  often  extend  over  a  great  many 
panes,  without  any  regard  to  the  divisions :  it  often  hap 
pens,  therefore,  that  the  figures  are  as  large  as  the  life, 
and  they  are  always  so  large  as  to  be  distinct  at  a  con 
siderable  distance.  The  windows  in  Gothic  structures  are 
commonly  covered,  in  a  great  measure,  with  fine  painting?, 
the  colours  of  which  are  extremely  vivid  and  beautiful. 
You  can  £asily  conceive,  therefore,  that,  on  entering  a 
Gothic  church,  the  eye  must  be  immediately  arrested  and 
engrossed  by  these  splendid  images:  they  are  rendered 
very  conspicuous  by  the  partial  transmission  of  the  light, 
which  they  soften  and  diversify,  without  impairing  it  so 
much  as  to  produce  obscurity,  while,  at  the  same  time, 
they  give  the  interior  of  the  building  an  unrivalled  air  of 
solemnity  and  grandeur. 

When  the  spectator  retires  to  one  end  of  the  chapel  of 
which  1  am  speaking,  and  casts  his  eyes  along  its  beauti 
ful  pavements,  tessellated  with  black  and  white  marble, 
along  its  roof,  impending  with  a  mountain's  weight,  and 
along  the  stupendous  columns  which  support  the  arch, 
surveying  at  the  same  time  the  gorgeous  transparencies 
which  veil  the  glass,  he  is  involuntarily  filled  with  awe 
and  astonishment. 


•n.'s:  KM) 


J 


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